Art of Deception
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: Everything is not always what it seems.


Disclaimer: These are not my characters and I make no profit from them.

Rated: K+

**Author's Note:** I committed this story to paper back in July of '05, after which it was handed over to the authorities and remanded to a file cabinet for seven months. It was then released to a 'zine in February of '06. Now, having completed its year of parole, it has had its full rights restored to it as a member of the e-fic community.

It takes up shortly after the end of part two of 'Rolling Thunder'. McCormick has used the Coyote to make the Las Vegas-to-LA run in record time, in order to get to a meeting with his parole officer.

Many thanks to my betas: Cheri, Lynn, and Linda. All the mistakes that remain are my very own.

**Art of Deception**

By L. M. Lewis

It was dusk when McCormick finally pulled into the drive at Gull's Way, the end of a very long day that had begun in Nevada. By now Martin Cody was sitting in a Las Vegas lock-up; McCormick could take some satisfaction in that, even though it wouldn't bring back Flip Johnson.

But setting and springing the trap for Cody had only been the beginning. After that there'd been his over-the-limit three-hour drive back to LA to try and make his five PM appointment with his parole officer, John Dalem. He hadn't gotten past Barstow before he was sure that it would be a three-hour and fifteen minute drive, and that would make him inexcusably late.

McCormick had thought he was used to injustice by now, but the certainty that Dalem would yank his ticket and send him back to San Quentin sat like a weight on his chest. He'd parked the Coyote illegally, and made a mad dash up the stairs, not waiting for the elevator. The anteroom had been deserted, even the secretary had gone for the day, but the door to Dalem's inner officer stood ajar, and there was the man himself sitting at his desk.

McCormick had taken a moment to regain his composure. What difference did it make? He was already hopelessly late. What he didn't want now was for the fear to show. _Why does this guy scare you more than Cody's henchmen?_ The answer to that was simple, he knew; Cody's goons could only kill him.

_Dalem can send you back to prison._

He'd kept his face neutral, cool, not challenging. _A little dignity at least._

"Mr. Dalem?" he'd said with surprising calm, as he stepped into the office, "I have a good reason for being late."

Dalem had been tapping the end of his pen on the file folder in front of him; he'd looked none too pleased. McCormick would have expected more self-satisfaction under the circumstances, and he'd felt the tiniest glimmer of hope.

"So I was told," the parole officer had said flatly. "Judge Hardcastle called." Dalem's face had taken on an expression of resigned displeasure. "Though if it were up to me—"

_It is up to you._

"—you'd be leaving this office with a police escort."

McCormick had stood there silently, reconsidering all his assumptions.

Then Dalem had pushed the file aside. "But it looks like I won't be the one riding herd on you from now on. Hardcastle's swung some sort of deal with the Parole Board—can't say I'm too disappointed." He gave McCormick a considering look. "I hope you know what you've gotten yourself into."

This last part had taken Mark completely by surprise, mostly because it had been exactly what he had been thinking himself at that moment. He wouldn't have believed that he and Dalem could agree on _anything_.

But all he'd said was, "Don't worry; I can take care of myself," and he'd managed a cocky smile to go with it.

Then he'd turned and left. It was only when he was all the way outside, walking back to the Coyote, that the whole thing had struck him. _It's real. He's in charge from now on. And he thinks he's the Lone Ranger. And I don't even know if I can stand him._

He'd come to a full halt, standing on the sidewalk next to the Coyote. _He helped you nail Cody. He got Dalem off your back._

_He shot a Picasso. He drives like a maniac._

_You drive like a maniac._

_I drive like a professional maniac._

He'd looked nervously over his shoulder, back at the building he'd come from, hoping Dalem wouldn't come out and see him caught in frozen indecision. Then he'd climbed into the car, fully aware that if he went anywhere but back to Gull's Way, Hardcastle would cheerfully request an APB.

And now, pulling up the driveway of the estate, he saw the light over the front door, and through the front windows. _Sarah's home._ The truck wasn't there yet, though. As he was climbing out of the Coyote, he had a passing thought. Up 'till now the judge had always been around when he was here; maybe Sarah would be nervous—

"Well, are you just going to stand around out there or are you coming in?" She came to the doorway and was leaning out. He smiled.

"Coming, Sarah."

She gave him a quick appraising look as he passed her into the hallway. "I suppose you haven't eaten, either?"

He realized with a start that he hadn't, not since breakfast, which had been nervous and hurried. He shook his head.

"Well, I've got some meatloaf and au gratin potatoes warming in the oven." She shooed him in the direction of the kitchen.

"Aren't you going to ask me how it went?" he asked as he took a seat at the table.

"You got him. The judge called." She managed a little smile. "I knew you would. And then you drove home in that _car_." This time she shook her head.

"It's street legal, Sarah," Mark protested.

"Not when you drive it, I'm sure," Sarah sniffed.

Mark was grinning now. "It _is_ very fast; North of Barstow I was—"

Sarah cocked her head and gave him a look that cut him off abruptly. "Hasn't anyone ever explained the Fifth Amendment to you, young man?" she asked, and only the smallest upturn of one corner of her mouth gave her away.

Mark cleared his throat. "Double-nickel all the way, Sarah. And you can quote me to the judge on that," he gave her his most sincere and sober smile.

"I wouldn't dream of it, young man," Sarah replied as she dished up his plate and set it down in front of him. "_I_ try _not_ to lie to him."

Mark grinned again. Then he dug into the food gratefully, trying to remember the last time he'd had homemade meatloaf. Between bites he asked, "When'd he say he'd be back?"

Sarah had gone over to the sink and was tidying up. She glanced over her shoulder and said, "Not later than eleven. He said he had to take care of some matters with the Las Vegas authorities. And don't talk with your mouth full."

Mark nodded, chewed, swallowed, and started again, "Sarah?" he paused, looking at the forkful of food he was holding. He put it down. He hesitated. The housekeeper had turned around fully now, and was looking at him questioningly. He cleared his throat again, this time nervously. "Now don't get mad."

She raised an eyebrow at him.

"I mean, I know you think a lot of the judge."

"He's a wonderful man—" Sarah began.

Mark held up one hand. "See, that's what I mean, but . . . I gotta know something, Sarah. It's _really_ important . . ."

She looked at him patiently while he tried to put the right words together.

"See, what I wanna know is, is he . . . _does_ he know what the hell he's doing? I mean, he shot a _Picasso_ out there the other day—"

"That was to save _you_," Sarah said with arch indignation. "Judge Hardcastle is the kind of person who thinks _people_ are more important than things"

"But I was right in front of that Picasso."

"I'm sure he was counting on you to duck. And you _did_." Sarah smiled, complete in her vindication.

Mark sighed, and dug back into the food. He didn't know why he'd been expecting a straight answer from another member of the asylum. But at least she made a damn good meatloaf.

He finished his meal in relative silence and then washed his dishes, Sarah still puttering away. It was not even nine o'clock but she said, "I don't think he expects you to wait up for him." This, he guessed, was her way of politely dismissing him before he could ask anymore annoying questions.

He nodded once and replied, "I don't have to 'wait up' Sarah. He'll be doing his hundred lay-ups outside the gatehouse window at half-past midnight." Then he said thank you and good-night, picked up his jacket, and left through the back door.

He stood there for a moment in the now-complete darkness, the yard stretching off into pitch-black. He could hear and smell the ocean out beyond that, and, as his eyes slowly adjusted, he became aware of the night sky. He could see well enough now to make out the few trees at the back of the yard near the drop-off to the beach below. He made his way there slowly, looking up part of the time.

There was a warm southern breeze and, from the sound of it, the surf was kicking up high, though it was still more a presence than a thing seen. But the stars . . . he'd been out of prison for nearly six months now and he wondered how long it was going to last, this wonderment at being able to look _up_. He didn't think he'd ever had it before. How could he have taken that much for _granted?_

_You're going to do whatever it takes. Make nice if you have to. _The trick, he decided, was knowing when you're beat. _I am never going back there—I'll die first. _Then he thought about the Picasso, and the crazy chase in the Corvette, and thought, _be careful what you wish for._

00000

He awoke Saturday morning to the now all-too-familiar sound of basketball hitting backboard and, for the first time in nearly a week, didn't have the momentary confusion that comes with waking up in a strange place. _He must've skipped the bedtime lay-ups. _There was something reassuring in the notion that even Hardcase could get tired enough to break training once in a while. McCormick had begun to have visions of running himself ragged keeping up with the old donkey, an endless series of pulse checks preceded by bursts of maximum exertion.

He got up, scratching his head, and then scrounged around in the box of clothes he'd brought over from his old apartment, looking for something suitable for contact basketball. He settled on a t-shirt that was already torn, and some jeans that had seen better days. _I'll have to go get the rest of my stuff this weekend._ Not that there was that much to get.

He sauntered outside, trying to look like a guy who didn't hit a very high percentage from outside the key before he'd had his morning coffee. He was still down twenty on the pulse bets but thought he could make it up on the court, just a little more yawning and scratching. Hardcastle bit.

"Didn't get your ten hours of sleep, kiddo?"

McCormick rubbed his nose and shrugged.

"Some one-on-one'll wake ya up." Hardcastle hooked a thumb back over his shoulder at the hoop.

"Twenty bucks, twenty-one points?" McCormick asked, suddenly a lot more alert.

Hardcastle's eyes narrowed a bit. "Who's ahead so far?"

McCormick laughed. "Hardcase, don't ask _that_. Ask 'Who can afford it more?' You are _so_ far ahead of me." He shook his head. "And now I have a very expensive dependent." He pointed in the direction of the Coyote, parked by the garage.

"I already told you I'd pay for the gas. Just save the receipts."

"It's not just the gas, Judge. I'm an ex-con racecar driver with a street rod. Oh, did I mention it already has a bullet hole in the driver's side rear-quarter? The insurance company is gonna have to invent a whole new category for me. You'll be amazed; trust me," he shook his head again, "I know. That's how I wound up in this mess in the first place."

Hardcastle was squinting at the car. "Well, it might be pretty useful." He brightened, "Hey, maybe we can work it as some sort of business expense, a tax deduction or—"

"See," McCormick interjected, "that's what I mean. To take a tax deduction you have to actually make enough money to _owe_ taxes. My income so far this year is," he looked skyward a moment while he did a painfully quick calculation, "thirty-eight hundred dollars. And that includes the two hundred and the bus ticket that I got from the State of California six months ago."

Hardcastle looked at him consideringly. "I don't suppose you'd want to just transfer it to me; I'll assume all the operating expenses and the insurance. You'd still get to drive it."

"_No._" McCormick's response was abrupt. "I won't," he added, in a slightly lower tone. He realized, even as he was speaking, that he was over-reacting. Some sort of quip, a smart remark to deflect the tension, _that would be a good idea right now._ But he couldn't for the life of him think of another thing to say. After a moment he finally muttered. "No . . ._ that's_ how I wound up in this mess in the first place."

The judge seemed to take it pretty gracefully. "Okay, I'll pay the insurance, too. It's either that, or you put it up on blocks and it's no use to anybody . . . How'd it get a bullet hole?"

"Cody," he shrugged. "We were running side-by-side for a couple seconds on the track, right before I forced them off," McCormick frowned, "but he wasn't aiming for the car."

The judge looked a little grim at this comment. "No, I suppose he wasn't." He shook his head once. "Look, I shouldn't have to tell you this, but if you aren't carrying a gun, and the bad guy is, I'd kinda like you to hold back a little, and not get yourself killed."

McCormick smiled, "I can't carry; I'm on parole. Tonto better not be found in possession of anything badder than a bow and arrow. So I hope that whole thing about 'riding shotgun' is a figure of speech."

"Well, there's such a thing as 'flagrant necessity,' see, like the other day when Cody's goons were trying to kidnap you."

"Ah, the other day, _exactly_," McCormick held up his hand. "We all have our areas of expertise, Judge. Mine is driving, and _yours_ is the shotgun." He made a face and, after a moment's pause, he segued, "How much was that Picasso worth, anyway?"

Hardcastle had an abstracted expression on his face. "You know, I've been thinking; I might have a use for that."

McCormick's eyebrows went up questioningly. "Hardcase, there's a hole where the head used to be, and it isn't even the kind of Picasso where you wouldn't _notice_ something like that. What kind of _use_ did you have in mind?"

"Bait for a bad guy, what else?" the judge smiled. He put the ball up one-handed for a quick two points, then McCormick took the rebound and moved out for a three-point shot.

00000

The kid was all elbows and fast moves under the hoop. _At least he isn't holding anything back_, Hardcastle thought. He'd been starting to wonder. The whole thing had been so damn _easy_ so far. The angry young man who'd confronted him in his chambers couldn't possibly have disappeared completely.

At least while they'd had Cody as a common foe, the anger could be diverted. But he'd watched the kid suppress that, too, while he dealt the con to Vetromile and Cody both. _So, what's real and what's not? And what happens now that Cody is out of the picture?_

The judge lunged left as McCormick faked right and then went right past him to sink the final two points. Both men were panting. The kid leaned over with his hands on his knees.

"I'll . . . take the twenty," he said between breaths.

"Inside," Hardcastle gasped back, pointing toward the main house. "Breakfast."

McCormick straightened up slowly. He at least had the grace to make it look like winning had been an effort. He was smiling, but there was something reserved about it. _Too much, too fast. Ought to have held off on the thing with Dalem. _But he hadn't been willing to risk the kid getting thrown back inside on a technical violation.

And the whole suggestion about taking responsibility for the Coyote? _That_ had been badly timed. He couldn't expect McCormick to trust him this soon. _Especially an offer like that._ It was obvious that the car was something more than a possession to McCormick. _What had he called it—a dependent?_ Another commitment really, as well as a link to everything he had lost.

_Okay, so you help him out with the expenses, and you put him and the car to work for the good guys. He gets to do what he likes to do best, which is drive like stink. That oughta help some._

_That, and keep him busy. Don't give him time to think about it all. _Hardcastle smiled to himself as he led the way to the main house. "And after breakfast you can start on the lawn."

00000

It wasn't even lunch-time before McCormick had concluded that mowing the Gull's Way lawn was a task akin to painting the Golden Gate Bridge. By the time he got all the way to one end, the part he'd started first would have grown enough to need another cutting. And the judge had made a casual remark about the hedges needing trimming.

Mark stopped, shut the motor down, and took a swipe at his brow with the bandana he'd shoved in his back pocket. There was only one good thing about a job this tedious. _It gives me time to think._ And what he was thinking right now was that if he got bored enough, then _any_ harebrained scheme of Hardcase's would start to look good, by comparison. _Go out and bust some mob boss? Sign me up, Judge._

He gritted his teeth and pulled the starter cord with more aggression than was required. _No way. Someone around here had to be the calm voice of reason._ He heard his name being shouted over the sound of the mower.

Shutting it down again, he turned and saw Hardcastle, file in one hand, calling him from the patio. _Thank God_. He abandoned the mower where it sat and walked back to the house.

"I wanna show you something," Hardcastle tucked the file under his arm and led him inside. Mark took the bandana out for one last wipe and followed him into the den.

The judge took his seat behind the desk and opened the file in front of him. "This is a guy named Philo Constantine, art dealer." He picked up a photo and passed it across the desk. McCormick leaned over and took it before sitting down in the seat opposite.

"Art? What kind, stolen or forgeries?"

"Both, I suspect."

"Mob connections, huh?"

The judge's eyebrows had gone up. "You _know_ this guy?"

"No," McCormick sighed, "lucky guess."

"See," Hardcastle reached over and took the photo back, "that's how he got his start in the business. He acted as a front man for a money laundering operation, drug money mostly, art objects that never existed or weren't worth what was being paid for them. Imports, exports, receipts, it was quite a tap dance he did.

"He kept that up for a few years, until finally one of his 'appraisers' got caught on a little fraud charge of his own, offered to turn state's evidence on Constantine."

"And what was the 'technicality' that time?" McCormick asked.

"They found the guy's hands in a dumpster up in Fresno." Hardcastle said flatly. "The rest of him has never turned up."

McCormick swallowed hard, once. "Quite a technicality, that."

Hardcastle nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah. After that he quit the laundry service. Or the bent nose crowd quit him; he was a little too hot even for them. That was maybe six years ago." The judge riffled through the short stack of pages in front of him. "But every once in a while I'd think about old Philo, what he was getting himself up to."

"Wondering if he was still keeping a hand in?" Mark smiled grimly.

"There've been rumors; him handling stolen pieces, maybe dealing in forgeries, but this art crowd, they're tighter than even the mob. Nobody will admit that they've been had; it would ruin their reputations."

"Caveat emptor," McCormick shrugged.

Hardcastle gave him a sharp glance. "This guy's dangerous. 'Bout two years ago a friend of mine, a police lieutenant, came to me with a story about an art student." He dug through the papers briefly and found another photo. "Here," he handed it over, "name's Allison Davis. That _was_ her name. She was found dead—an overdose the coroner said."

"Suicide?"

"Maybe, but there was no note, and none of her friends thought so. Harper, that's the lieutenant, he investigated. Constantine's name came up. Seems he'd been wining and dining her for a couple months before she turned up dead. Wanna know how they got together?" Hardcastle didn't wait for a response, "Her friends say she met him at the LA County Museum. She was in the gallery, doing a copy of a Rubens. You know, like the students do."

"I'll bet she was pretty good, too," McCormick said quietly.

"Yup, that's what the friends said. Though, to put it kindly, they said she wasn't an 'original talent', but she was supposed to be a good mimic." Hardcastle shook his head. "So, Harper came to me, because he knew I had this longstanding interest in Constantine, but he never got any further in the investigation. Our guy had an alibi for the night of her death, and there wasn't any physical evidence to tie him to it."

McCormick looked at the woman's picture. No original talent. She had a nice smile. Her eyes were sad.

"What did he use on her?"

"Vodka and valium. She wound up face down on her pillow; that was the immediate cause of death."

"So he drugged her and then smothered her."

"That's what it looked like to Harper and me."

McCormick put the picture back down on the desk and pushed it gently in the judge's direction. "So, why go after him now? And how are you going to do it?"

"Now? Because he's had two years to think he's gotten away with it. No heat, he's gotta be pretty relaxed. And how we do it, well . . . that depends on you."

McCormick looked out the window at the yard for a moment, then back down at the picture.

"Depends on me how?"

00000

Hardcastle sat back in his chair considering the man on the other side of the desk. A lot was hanging on the next few words. Everything up till now had been at least partly in his own self-interest. _And yet, the way he'd looked at that photo_—

"See, I was thinking we'd try a little scam on old Philo. We could use that damaged painting as a calling card. It's still recognizable as the real deal. If Constantine isn't sure, he knows people who can verify it for him. Nancy got it at an auction," he rubbed the bridge of his nose, "'bout fifteen years ago, it was. There'll be records of that.

"So you show up at his place, he's got a gallery near Rodeo, and spin him a story. Maybe you even tell him outright that you stole it. He can check out the provenance easy enough. But it's damaged." Hardcastle smiled, "You ask him if it can be fixed—fixed enough to be sold or, even better, ransomed back to me. He might like that part; he isn't too fond of me."

"So far it sounds like entrapment," McCormick said dryly.

"Yup, so far it is. But it's just a foot in the door. And who the hell would destroy a Picasso just to arrange a set-up like this?"

McCormick smiled wryly, "You, probably. In fact, I've been waiting for you to say it's what you planned all along."

"Nah, even I'm not _that_ crazy," Hardcastle looked thoughtful, "though I don't know why I didn't think of it sooner . . . Anyway," he looked up abruptly, "once we've got a foot in the door, then comes the hard part."

"_My_ foot in the door," McCormick corrected quietly.

"Yeah," Hardcastle smiled, "_yours_, a poor wayward art thief in need of guidance. And I'm guessing that Constantine may see this as his golden opportunity. He gets you to take the risk doing a few more jobs for him, while he sits back and rakes in the profits. But it all hinges on one thing. I know you can steal cars—"

"Repossess," Mark corrected again.

The judge cleared his throat briefly and amended, "_—repossess _cars . . . but can you be a convincing burglar?" He was watching the reaction carefully. So far not much visible up front, just a slow, steady, considering look directed at his desktop.

00000

_Dammit, how much more does the man want? _McCormick had a sudden deep-seated feeling that Constantine's file had not been the only one on the judge's desk that morning. He also wished desperately that he could have one glimpse at the cards the man was holding. _How much of a background search has he done? _

"How convincing would I have to be?" McCormick asked non-commitedly.

The judge shook his head a little impatiently. "Look, I know you got into Cody's place pretty slick, and that was crawling with security, and I can see by your Florida record that you didn't consider locked doors an obstacle to 'repossession'. I just wanna know if you could get into a high-security building like an art gallery, remove a painting and, more important, get into a safe—the provenance papers are as important as the art."

Hardcase had managed somehow to make it sound like less of a confession, but still, Mark hesitated.

"I'd need _equipment_," he said quietly.

"More than you had the other night at Cody's?"

McCormick managed a thin smile, "Come on now, Judge. I'm on parole; having burglary tools would be a 466," there was a brief pause, "and safe-cracking requires some specialty stuff."

"But you could do it?"

The answer was a single, sullen, "Yeah."

Hardcastle leaned back and cocked an eyebrow. Mark thought for a moment that the interrogation was over. He let out a premature sigh of relief. Then came the follow-up punch.

"So where'd you learn how to do it?"

He felt what had only been natural caution flare up into anger.

"Dammit," this time he'd said it out loud, "_Judge_, I just handed you a box of ammunition; you want me to load the gun for you, too?"

The older man was smiling at him. Damned if the old donkey didn't look like he preferred angry sparring to cooperation. But he also seemed to be waiting for something more.

_No. . . no more_, Mark thought. He spoke through gritted teeth, "Let's just say I spent two years studying on a Hardcastle scholarship and leave it at that."

The judge studied him a moment long before he shrugged, "Okay . . . for now. You'll need to make a list of what you'll need."

"I could just—"

"No _I'll_ do the shopping. If I need your help, I'll let you know. And I'll need to make some other arrangements, gonna need to talk to Frank." He was sorting through the papers again.

"Frank?"

"Oh," Hardcastle looked up, "Harper, the lieutenant. He's gonna have to sign off on this. I'm not putting you in play without some sort of departmental liaison."

"Well, let's just go ahead and circulate my resume to the LAPD," McCormick looked increasingly annoyed. "The first thing he'll do is go back through _his_ unsolved case files looking for a match-up or two."

"Are there any?" the judge asked mildly.

"_No._" Mark replied emphatically."None. But that won't keep him from looking. Are you sure we need him?"

"Frank wants Constantine," Hardcastle's voice stayed even, "and you could use a friend or two in the Department. And, yeah, we _are_ gonna need him."

00000

Hardcastle sat there a moment longer, looking at the reluctance on the younger man's face and wondering if he was the only one who'd just noticed the shift. '_We._' Fine, if it had to be in opposition to something else, that would do for now.

McCormick was standing, saying, "Okay, I'll make that list. You make your arrangements."

Hardcastle frowned for a moment. "Your apartment, you haven't handed in the key?"

He watched the kid freeze and then heard him answer tersely, "I've still got it."

"Good, don't move your stuff just yet. You might need a place while we're working on this."

There was a moment of tense silence, then McCormick said, "Well, you'd better hustle. I found the eviction notice on the door yesterday when I stopped by to pick up some clothes. It was posted last Wednesday. I'm lucky they're giving me a week, being arrested right out on the sidewalk like that."

"Better and better," the judge spoke without thinking, then noticed the kid grimace. "I mean for the _plan._ You gotta admit, all the odd looks from the neighbors will give the story some juice if we can get Constantine to pay you a visit."

"God, yes," McCormick threw his hands up as he turned and walked out, "nothing like being read the Miranda right out there in broad daylight to really raise your stock with the folks in your building. Oh, my, yes." Then he was off.

Hardcastle heard the door, and then sat there a while longer, still listening. He didn't hear the lawnmower starting up again. List making apparently took precedence. He smiled and leaned back, turning the pages of the file over idly and thinking. _So how many ex-guests of the state actually read the parole agreement? A 466, hah. And if the kid expects me to believe the safe-cracking can be learned by being told about it, well . . . _just for now he'd leave that one be.

00000

The judge went shopping that afternoon. McCormick had told him what, and even where. And of some of the 'what's and 'where's had been very interesting.

Hardcastle looked on with vague uneasiness Saturday evening, as the kid sorted through the stuff, but eventually a simple question about a peculiar electronic device (which had been produced from under the counter at the last place he'd visited) produced an enthusiastically technical answer. This was followed by an 'or so I've heard,' tagged on at the end as an apparent afterthought.

The effect was comically unconvincing and the judge found himself laughing. To his surprise, McCormick's first indignant glare dissolved into a cock-eyed smile and an embarrassed shrug.

"You just better hope it works as advertised. I've never used one of those._ Really_." His expression had gotten a little more sober, "Seriously, Judge, I don't want you to get the impression that I've had a _lot _of experience at this. I'm a pretty quick study, not an original talent." He quirked another smile, "Talented amateur at best. And you gotta figure most of the people I took advice from were already behind bars, so what does _that_ tell you?"

"That crime doesn't pay," the judge grinned back.

The smile stayed more or less in place. "So I've heard."

Sarah had found them like that, heads together over another one of the more interesting items. She'd put down the tray with the coffee and cookies, tsked once, and commented, "You're corrupting him," without making it entirely clear who she was addressing.

Mark looked up at the departing housekeeper. "I don't think Sarah approves."

The judge was still fiddling with a piece of equipment. "She'd like to see one of you guys finish the lawn before you wind up back in the slammer." A moment of silence had passed before Hardcastle glanced up, and realized the kid wasn't smiling anymore. "What now" he asked McCormick bluntly.

The younger man swallowed something down. Hardcastle was sure what he said next was not what he'd intended to say.

"Hasn't happened yet, huh?" McCormick asked flatly; his expression was tight, unrevealing.

"There's always a first time," the judge said encouragingly.

There was another uncomfortable silence and then finally the kid said, "The pokey, the slammer, camp, the 'house of many doors'. Do you ever just call it prison? That's what it is; it's _prison_."

Hardcastle gave him a long considering look, and then said quietly, "Do you need to be _reminded_ of that?"

A quick shake of the head and the ex-con was putting the equipment carefully into the black nylon knapsack.

"I told Harper we'd meet him tomorrow," the judge said. "We've got a place where you can try this stuff out."

McCormick shot him a look. "We're not going to endanger my amateur status, are we?" The smile was back, a little forced.

"Consider it a little demo for a potential backer," the judge said. "I think you'll like Frank. He's very practical; he likes to get the job done."

McCormick didn't reply. He'd finished packing. He looked up at the judge, gesturing to the bag. "You want me to leave this here?"

"Why?" the judge shrugged, "They're your toys; you put 'em away."

Now the smile was genuine, though a little puzzled. "Okay." He slung the bag over one shoulder and turned to go.

The judge looked at him, then down at his watch. "Kinda early, wanna watch some TV?"

Mark looked back, one eyebrow up. "The Lone Ranger?"

"Nah," the judge replied, "that's not on. Maybe some John Wayne." He reached for the remote.

McCormick hesitated a moment, then put the bag back down.

"Hey, look, we got _Dakota_ here; haven't seen that one in a while."

McCormick made a face. "It's _ancient_."

"It's a classic."

"It's in black and white."

"It's got Vera Ralston."

"Vera _who_?"

"Ralston, she was an ice skater."

"Ice skater? But it's a western."

"Well," Hardcastle shook his head, "she didn't skate in _this_ one. She was supposed to be like Sonja Henie."

"Sonja who?"

"Okay," Hardcastle put his palm to his forehead, "now you're just pulling my leg."

"Maybe," McCormick grinned, as he sank down into the nearest chair.

00000

On Sunday morning, with no money riding on the outcome, the judge pulled off a two-point victory and McCormick suddenly found himself at the receiving end of a questioning glare.

"Pulled up lame at the end there, kiddo?"

"Cramp," Mark replied with heartfelt sincerity. "Really. Probably from too much lawn mowing."

For this he got a 'Harrumph' from Hardcastle and then, unexpectedly, "Do you know how to scramble eggs?"

"Ah, yeah," McCormick shrugged. "I've never had a housekeeper."

"Good, Sarah has Sundays off. It's your turn to cook."

00000

Mark surveyed the kitchen one last time. He'd managed to put eggs, bacon, and toast on the table without creating too much havoc, and the small amount of havoc he _had_ created had been mostly set to rights.

He had a sneaking suspicion, though, that Sarah would know he'd been on her turf. But surely she'd know he hadn't _volunteered_ to mess up her kitchen. He gave one last swipe to the top of the counter and put the dishtowel on the rack.

He wandered into the hallway, hearing the judge talking to someone on the phone, setting a meeting time. As he passed by the doorway he saw Hardcastle hang up and wave him in.

"All taken care of, one o'clock. The place is on Ventura Boulevard. Frank'll meet us there."

McCormick looked a little pensive. "So, just what is this set up?"

The owner is a cousin of a friend of Frank's. He was wondering if he needed to upgrade his security. Frank's already looked it over and he thinks it's pretty good. You're supposed to show 'em he's wrong." Hardcastle's smile was shark-like.

"You said these art dealers are a pretty tight bunch. What if the word gets around that I'm hanging out with you?" McCormick shook his head, "Could be hell for my reputation."

"You're not a wayward art thief today, kiddo, just a security technician. Don't wear basic black. You got some overalls?"

"Only some with grease stains on the knees and a Pennzoil patch on the pocket."

Hardcastle made a face. "Then a polo shirt. And you've still got time to do some hedge trimming before lunch."

"Wait a sec," McCormick protested, "I made breakfast, and this afternoon I'm doing a security analysis. And it's _Sunday_."

"So," the judge shrugged, "most people catch up on their yard work on the weekends."

"But it's not my _yard_."

"Yeah," Hardcastle's expression had begun a slow drift into a scowl, "but it's your yard work."

McCormick paused, not sure how close to the edge he was. _Was this real or just habit?_ He backed off a bit and tried a different tack.

"Can't open a safe if I've got blisters, Judge."

Hardcastle seemed to give this a moment's consideration. "Okay," he replied, "no hedge trimming. You can clean the pool. No blisters there."

00000

At a few minutes to one, the judge pulled the truck up in front of an older building on Ventura. McCormick saw a middle-aged balding man standing out front, hands in his pockets. At first glance he would have said 'mildly bored salesman', but there was something in the set of his eyes, and the wary look he gave the younger man as he climbed out of Hardcastle's truck, that said '_police'_.

Mark reached back in and took out the toolbox that he'd transferred his equipment into. He'd found it in the garage, less conspicuous than the knapsack though a whole lot noisier.

"Hi, Frank," Mark heard the judge greet the other man as he came around the front of the truck from the driver's side. "This is the one I was telling you about—name's McCormick." He'd jerked his thumb in the younger man's direction and then turned to him, "This is _Lieutenant_ Harper."

McCormick offered a cautious hand and was half-surprised not to have it snubbed. "Mark," he added.

"Frank," the other man replied. "So, how's it working out this time?"

Frank had clearly turned back to Hardcastle, who had only just opened his mouth to reply when McCormick interjected, "So far, so good, but he's gonna need a lot of work on his lay-ups."

The silence was pretty profound for mid-day on Ventura Boulevard, McCormick thought. And then, just about when he'd given up hope, he watched Frank produced an unexpected smile.

"Yeah, Milt, I'd say you were right about the smart mouth." He looked straight at the younger man. "You gonna show me what you can do?"

"I hope so."

Harper led the way in and introduced them to the owner, an elderly, nervous man named Truitt, who told them there'd been an upswing in gallery thefts in the past year. Oils mostly. Lesser works by better-known artists. He had started to worry.

McCormick looked around carefully. It was not one of those sterile modern-art galleries, all hardwood floors and white walls. This one had the look of someone's attic, with paintings stacked against most of the vertical surfaces, as well as hung frame-to-frame on the walls. The safe would be something old and reliable, and it would have six months of paperwork lying on top, instead of inside.

"Who lives upstairs?" Mark asked the owner politely.

"Ah . . . it was a dental office. Dr. Samuelson, but he retired. It's been for rent for a couple months now."

"Did you discuss this security check with your landlord, Mr. Truitt?"

"Oh, yes, he was very enthusiastic."

"Could you give him a call right now and ask him if he'd like us to include the rest of the building?" Mark smiled reassuringly.

Truitt looked surprised, but the said, "Of course. Just give me a moment."

It took only about ten minutes to get permission. Then McCormick left Truitt inside to activate his security system. The other two men followed him out the back into the alley. The first floor door appeared intimidatingly solid from the outside, but the dumpster got Mark within a short jump of the second floor fire escape. He leaned back over the fire escape railing and asked, "Are you two coming up?" Then he lowered the extension ladder rungs. "Bring my toolbox."

As Harper and Hardcastle watched, the second floor rear door surrendered easily to a pick taken from a case that the judge hadn't seen the night before. McCormick opened the stiff, seldom-used door slowly. They heard nothing from below. Inside was the dusty back room of an abandoned office.

Mark stepped in, the others behind him. He walked with a fair amount of certainty along the perimeter of the room, tapping his foot every couple of feet. Not finding what he wanted there, he opened the door to a closet, tapping again. This time he smiled. Bending down, he took a pry bar from the tool box.

"Just the linoleum," he said over his shoulder to the other two. It came up easily. "See?" He pointed to an inset of plywood which lifted out after a minor amount of wrestling. "Jeez, they weren't even trying," he added, with some disgust. He was looking down inside at some light coming up through the holes in the upper side of an acoustic-tiled drop ceiling. The other two leaned over.

"It's an old building," he reached in again and pulled the center tile free and then smiled down at the up-turned face of Mr. Truitt, who was staring at them in puzzlement. "It didn't start out as an art gallery." He waved at Truitt and said, "We'll be down in a minute." Then he carefully replaced the tile and the plywood, and flipped the linoleum back on top. He turned to the other men, wiping his hands on his pants. "It was a ma and pa store, probably, and ma and pa lived upstairs. They had a stairway in the back. This was the kitchen. When they split the floors, they took out the staircase."

"You were sure?" Harper asked incredulously.

"Nope," McCormick shook his head, "but I had my fingers crossed. It was either that or hope there were sixteen-inch joists. Twelves are a bitch, even for me."

Hardcastle looked mildly annoyed. "But what about the alarm system?"

"Do you want me to do this _your_ way, or the easy way?" Mark asked calmly. "Why take a risk going through it when you can go around it?"

"Makes sense to me," Frank replied readily.

"But there might not always _be_ an easy way," Hardcastle insisted.

McCormick shrugged, "Then I'll deal with it when it happens." He smiled, "Wanna go take a look at the safe?"

He followed the other two back out, carefully relocking the door after he'd closed it behind them.

"Do I get points for neatness?" he asked Frank when he was finished.

"Oh, a gold star at least," Harper quipped.

He let the two older men go down the ladder, then reeled it up and let himself over the railing, dropping deftly down to the top of the dumpster again. Truitt was standing at the open first-floor back door, staring at the younger man oddly.

"May we have a look at your safe?" McCormick asked in his most professional manner. Truitt preceded them toward an office near the back. On the way in Mark stopped to quickly admire an impressionist piece. "That's nice."

Truitt looked back, then beamed unabashedly. "That's my Guillaumin, just acquired. Very lovely isn't it?"

McCormick nodded appreciatively. Hardcastle squinted at it, and then at the kid. They all moved on, into the office. It was a tight fit, amidst all the clutter. The safe was a floor model, over in one corner. Mark stooped briefly to examine it, setting his toolbox on the ground and removing a device which vaguely resembled a stethoscope crossed with a transistor radio.

He looked over his shoulder briefly. Harper was checking his watch. McCormick smiled, "Twenty says I can do it in less than ten minutes."

"Don't encourage him," the judge grumbled.

It took six and a half.

Truitt appeared sobered. McCormick stood up and gestured at the shelves in the safe, crammed with papers. "You keep all the important stuff in here?"

Truitt nodded mutely.

Mark picked up a file lying on a stack on top of the safe. Beneath the file was a thick envelope which said _par avion_, and 'special delivery', each in two languages. He glanced down briefly and picked it up. "Behind on your filing?"

"The Guillaumin," Truitt gasped.

"It wouldn't have taken six minutes," Mark shook his head, "not even sixty seconds, provenance and all."

Truitt was effusively grateful, promising to change the combination, if not the whole safe itself, and repeatedly assuring all three of them that he would be calling his landlord that very morning. He concluded by saying to McCormick that he would most certainly recommend this service to his professional colleagues and did he have a few business cards to spare?

Mark smiled, patted where his shirt pocket ought to have been, made a quick expression of absentmindedness, and promised to send him some. By that time the judge had his hand on his shoulder and was pushing none-too-gently in the direction of the door.

Out on the sidewalk, and a few steps down the block, Frank caught up to them. "Okay, Milt, I'll admit he's got potential. You think he can handle Constan—?"

"All right," McCormick interrupted impatiently, "stop that right now, both of you. I'm standing next to you. I'm an emancipated adult . . . at least I was until recently," he added in a mutter to himself. "Would you please _not_ talk about me like I'm not here?"

Both men looked at him for a moment. Frank seemed to be giving him some sort of silent appraisal at the end of which he said, "Sorry, Mark." He shook his head, smiling a little. "That was a very interesting demonstration . . . unorthodox as hell, though. A security analyst would've at least _looked_ at the security system."

"It's a Honeywell. There's a lot of window foil, but I wasn't planning a smash and grab, so that's pretty irrelevant. He's got a local bell. It has a tamper switch on the side of the cover, and a McCulloh, but I'd cut both lines to be sure. They don't have DLPD's in LA anymore do they?"

"Only for banks and museums. Every business? Hell, no, that'd be a nightmare," Frank said with feeling.

"Didn't think so," Mark said, and then added, "but I might not have even needed to cut the lines; the judge got this really _neat_ device—"

"Milt?" Frank looked at the other man with mild astonishment. "That sounds like a 466, or maybe a 466.1."

"No intent, Frank," the judge explained with only a tinge of asperity. "And the subsection only requires the provider to keep a record of the name and address of the person he's providing the equipment for," He gave Mark a very significant look, "and, McCormick, I _know_ where you live. And where the hell did you get those lock picks?"

"Intent, Judge, intent," McCormick grinned. "Anyway, I would've put 'em on the list, but they just don't make them like they used to. You understand _that_, don't you?"

This time the Hardcastle scowl was recognizably mostly for show; there was a tacit admission that results counted for something. McCormick heaved an entirely invisible, internal sigh of relief. He felt almost like he had when he'd hit that hollow spot in the closet of the upstairs office.

Frank was speaking again, "Just as long as you understand; Constantine is dangerous. He kills people who cross him."

"Yeah," Mark agreed, "but he thinks he's gotten away with it. He has no reason to go after me; that would only raise more suspicions about him. If he doesn't trust me, he'll probably back away slowly, no harm, no foul. And you guys will just have to wait another year and try something else."

"So, when?" Frank looked at Hardcastle.

"Tomorrow, I think. The sooner the better."

00000

That evening in the gatehouse, Mark took the Picasso out of its frame. As the judge looked on, he laid it out on the table, and removed it from its stretcher. He looked up at the damaged plaster on the wall where the painting had hung and said, "You need something else there. I know where you can get a nice velvet Elvis real cheap."

Hardcastle smiled, "Might not show bullet holes so much?"

"Nah," McCormick shook his head. "Even Elvis couldn't stand up to a twelve-gauge shotgun slug." He studied the ragged edges of the hole. "There's a pretty big chunk missing here, Judge." Then he flattened out the edges of the unmounted canvas and rolled the painting up casually, face in, adding a couple of pieces of masking tape to fasten it. "Enough of a hack job, you think? Wayward enough? I'm going for ignorant Philistine here."

The judge looked down at the hastily tacked roll and then up at a smiling McCormick. "Ya know, you shouldn't underestimate this guy. He survived a lot of years working with the mob, and outfoxed the LAPD twice. Don't think you can just walk in there and put one over on him."

"Yeah," McCormick was still smiling, "but I've got a Picasso I can put my fist through. The shock value alone has gotta be worth something."

"Maybe," Hardcastle looked at the crudely packaged painting thoughtfully. "And I thought what you said this afternoon made a lot of sense."

"_Really_? Which part?"

"The part about how Constantine figures he got away with it and wouldn't risk messing it up by trying to take you down." The judge sat forward in his chair, frowning, "Except . . ."

"Except _what_?" McCormick asked distractedly; he had moved on to the toolbox, emptying its contents back into the knapsack.

"Except for the fact that this guy takes the hands all the way to Fresno." Hardcastle reached out and thwacked him on the arm, to get his full attention; Mark was looking at him now. "Very thorough," the judge added. "That's a guy who really _enjoys _his work."

The younger man's smile had become a shade tenser. "Come on, Judge, criminal mastermind or crazed killer, which is it? You can't have it both ways."

"Says who?" Hardcastle replied. "I've known guys who were _both_."

"Well," McCormick nodded as he turned back to the bag, "either way, I'll be careful, okay?"

Hardcastle looked at the rolled painting, the knapsack, and the man standing next to them.

"Okay," he said dubiously, "make sure you are."

00000

Monday morning it was Mark by two points, with no money riding on the game.

"Finally worked the kinks out, huh?" the judge said acerbically.

"You can only accomplish so much with brute force, Judge. I'd suggest more wrist and less elbow."

After breakfast Mark cleaned up and put on a shirt, no tie, and the sport coat he'd worn at the courthouse. _Only six days ago?_ It had seen a lot of mileage last week and, he'd decided, added a certain scruffy down-on-my-luck look that would fit with the story he was going to spin.

He slung the knapsack over his shoulder and tucked the painting under the other arm. Taking one last look around the gatehouse, he ducked out the door and pulled it shut behind him. The judge was leaning against the truck, looking impatient.

"You're sure the car's still over by your apartment?" Hardcastle asked.

The '74 Impala had been a loaner from his ex-boss at the body shop, in exchange for some engine work.

"It was there Friday evening, and he's been away all weekend. Listen," McCormick was frowning, "if he reports it stolen--—"

"Will ya quit worrying about it," the judge interrupted. "I'll head over there, right after I drop you off, and sort things out with the guy."

00000

The judge pulled up to the curb just in front of the apartment building. Mark climbed out and reached back in for the two items. A lady walking a small dog shot him a glance and hurried off.

He looked over his shoulder at the judge. "Next-door neighbor," he said, slamming the door.

"Perfect," the judge grinned as he pulled away.

McCormick watched him drive off. The woman had ducked into her front door and the sidewalk was otherwise deserted. He slouched up the steps and stood the painting momentarily against the wall next to his own door, as he fumbled for his keys.

He'd removed the eviction notice on Friday evening. It had been efficiently replaced with another, probably for the sake of the neighbors' peace of mind. He sighed and left this one in place.

The door opened with a reluctant creak. He put the painting just inside. The air was musty, after only a few days abandonment. He viewed the place critically, with the eyes of unfamiliarity. _Like coming back after being on vacation . . ._ _and a very strange trip it's been, too._ The furniture wasn't his, only some more clothing, a crate full of records, a few books. Not a lot to show.

There was a shoe-box in the closet with letters in it, every single one he'd received while he was in prison, and it wasn't even half full. He doubted he could ever stand to read them again, but it would be _criminal_ to throw something that valuable away.

He set the knapsack down, and reached under the bed for another very similar to it. There wasn't much redundancy in the contents. He added the necessary items to the new bag and put them both back under the bed, then he stood up, dusting off the knees of his pants. He picked up the painting and headed out the door.

00000

Constantine's gallery was everything Mr. Truitt's had not been, with hardwood floors the color of honey, and stark white walls illuminated by track lighting. The paintings were sparsely placed and entirely abstract. The only attractive thing in the place was a lithely-built Asian girl in a tubular black dress, and even she was trying so hard to be avant-garde that it was painful to watch.

McCormick stood just inside the front door, while she gave him the once over. He could almost hear an audible click—the off-switch of her personality—the moment she concluded he was not a potential customer.

"Is Mr. Constantine in?" he asked, with just the appropriate level of nervousness for a man with a stolen painting under his arm.

"I'll see," she gave him a bored smile; he wasn't even worth wasting _attitude_ on.

She disappeared into the back. Long minutes passed, during which Mark, in his wayward art thief persona, thought about how easy it would be to walk out with something, _but,_ _God, this stuff is ugly._ At last there were some sounds from the back, a tapping of hard soles on hardwood. Around the partition wall emerged a narrow-eyed, irritated man in the sort of expensive suit that turned 'fat' into 'heavy-set'.

"Mr. Constantine?" Mark began to offer a hand but withdrew it almost as quickly when it became immediately apparent that the other man was not cooperating.

"Yes," the man said tersely, "Mr. . . .ah?"

"McCormick." Mark smiled nervously. "I heard you might be able to help me with a little problem."

"Of what sort?" Constantine asked, almost primly.

"_This _sort." Mark pulled one of the pieces of masking tape loose and peeled back the corner of the roll just far enough to reveal a signature and a few brush strokes.

Constantine glanced down, and then looked again, this time longer. He finally lifted his eyes back up to meet McCormick's. There was a suspicious gleam there. "Where did you get this?"

"A private collection," McCormick replied.

"I would imagine," Constantine said dryly. Then he gestured with one hand. "Would you care to step in the back?"

McCormick nodded and followed him.

The office was nearly as stark as the gallery itself, from which McCormick concluded that they were not yet in the inner sanctum. This was only the place where Constantine wooed customers and completed sales. The dealer casually cleared some prints from the counter-high central table. Mark laid the canvas down but didn't unroll it.

Constantine looked at him warily. "I must preface this by telling you that I do not deal in stolen art," he said with smooth insincerity

"Who said it was stolen?" McCormick bristled.

"No one," Constantine added, unctuously. "Merely an observation, for the record."

Mark added a bit of hesitance, like a man who was on the verge of taking his things and leaving. He even started to reach for the roll. Constantine's hand stayed him.

"You've come all this way, might as well see what you've got, eh?"

McCormick frowned, then pulled off the other piece of tape decisively. He spread the canvas out. Constantine's gasp was everything he'd hoped for.

"What the hell happened to it?"

"An accident," McCormick said cryptically.

"An interesting story, no doubt," Constantine muttered as he bent over the painting. He studied the edges of the hole, then moved on to the rest.

Mark tapped his fingers on the edge of the table impatiently, finally asking, "So, is it real?"

Constantine gave him a sharp glance. "You have to ask?"

McCormick shrugged.

"Yes," Constantine sighed. "It is; more's the pity."

"Then what's it worth?"

Constantine looked at him with mild disgust. "In this condition, nothing. Oh, perhaps as a curiosity, or you might snip the name off the corner and peddle it as an autograph, maybe five hundred dollars." Acidity had crept into his voice at this last part.

McCormick looked crestfallen. "But I need more than that. Can it be repaired?"

"The _face_ is missing."

"Well . . . yeah." McCormick went sullen, like a kid who had been caught with a baseball mitt and a broken window.

Constantine gave him a calculating look. "If it was repairable, what then?"

McCormick fidgeted, not answering right off. Then he began, with some hesitance. "The guy who . . . owns it, he'd probably _pay_ . . . to have it fixed," he added hastily.

"Then maybe I should be talking to _him_," Constantine said pointedly.

"Ah, _no_," McCormick shook his head. "That would be a bad idea." He paused again and then went on it a rush, "See, _he's_ the guy who shot it in the first place. A twelve-gauge slug. But it was pretty dark and he wasn't aiming at the _painting_."

Constantine's smile was thin.

"He probably doesn't even know it's damaged." McCormick shrugged again. "So, if it was patched up, he might pay something to have it back."

"'Patched up?'" Constantine shuddered. "It's not as easy as all that. There's canvas missing. The repairs would be noticeable, at least from the back."

"You know, I don't think this guy knows a whole lot about paintings. I mean, this one _is_ valuable, right?"

"_Was_ valuable," Constantine sighed.

"Yeah, and it's by Picasso, right?"

Constantine nodded.

"Well, I mean, he's got this big mansion, an estate over in Malibu, but he didn't even have it hanging in his house; it was out in some kinda spare building, out by the front gate. That's how come I got it so easy—" McCormick broke off, as if suddenly aware that he'd said more than he'd intended. Then, after a moment, he plunged ahead heedlessly. "He wasn't supposed to be home. That's what they'd said. So I got all the way out there and over the fence, and the house is all lit up. But this other building, it was dark, so I figured, what the hell, I'd made the trip, and I _really_ needed to score something. Then I found _this_ hanging on the wall in there."

"And the hole?" Constantine asked curiously.

"Ah, dunno how he heard me. Maybe he just looked outside at the wrong time. I'd disconnected the alarms. Anyway, he comes running out there with a _shotgun_." McCormick looked down at what was left of the painting in disbelief. "That could have been _my_ head."

Constantine merely stared, narrow lipped, as though he was calculating the relative worth. Finally, he asked, "Who did you steal it from?"

"A guy," McCormick looked a little vague. "His name is Hardcastle. He's a judge."

"_Milton _Hardcastle?" Constantine asked in disbelief. "Well, at least the part about the shotgun makes sense now. Do you have _any_ idea who you were dealing with?"

"Yeah," McCormick had gone sullen again. "I do. He owes me big time. Two years worth, I'm figuring. I've only been out six months. He's _still_ on my case. I've lost my job; I'm about to be evicted. I'm damn lucky he didn't recognize me."

"You're sure?"

"Sure I'm sure. I watched my apartment for two hours before I went inside last night. No cops. If he'd known it was _me_, he'd a had me picked up and run in before I could spit. I'm sure."

"So you want to ransom this painting back to him? That's what you are saying?"

"Yeah, that's it."

"And you realize, if you are an emissary from the police, that what you are doing constitutes entrapment, do you not?"

"Huh? Emma what—?"

"Never mind," Constantine sighed heavily, reaching for the canvas and beginning to roll it carefully. "Repairs would be noticeable, if only from the back, even to a man who doesn't know the difference between a Rubens and a Reuben. Sometimes it is better to just start from scratch."

"You can do that?" McCormick looked doubtful.

"Not I, but someone I know. He's very good." Constantine pulled a large cardboard tube from under the table and slipped the painting inside neatly. "I can take you to see him."

"My car's out front," McCormick smiled.

Constantine nodded, handing him the tube. Then he said, "Wait here," as he exited the room. He was only gone a moment when he returned, carrying a .38, which he carefully allowed McCormick to glimpse before he slid it into his coat pocket. "One cannot be too cautious these days."

00000

At first McCormick wondered if it was his art thief persona that made him think the black and white was paying particular attention to him. That doubt only lasted for a block and a half of Wilshire Boulevard. The second time he glanced back in his mirror, Constantine noticed, too. He looked over his shoulder. The police car was edging up through traffic.

The art dealer glanced down between the seats at the cardboard tube lying conspicuously on the back seat. Then he looked sharply at McCormick. "This car isn't hot by any chance?"

"Not hot" Mark kept his eyes on the road and tried not to look worried. The guy in the black and white, now only a couple car length's back with nothing in between them, suddenly activated his lights and siren. "Maybe a little _warm_," McCormick conceded.

He hit the accelerator and squeezed between the car ahead and an oncoming one. Constantine had one hand instinctively out on the dash and an expression of horror on his face. McCormick spared him a glance as he weaved briefly back into traffic and then across to the left hand lane.

"You shouldn't do that," he admonished. "If I brake suddenly, you'll jam your fingers."

He jacked the wheel left, into the next cross street, recovered the skid, and then made a sharp right into an alley. The police car had apparently overshot. Two more quick but less conspicuous turns, and they were headed back in the direction they'd come on another side street, the sirens fading into the distance.

McCormick pulled to the curb and parked. "A cab maybe?" he suggested, reaching under his seat and pulling out a rag. "You might want to wipe your side down. It's my ex-boss's; he already knows who _I_ am," McCormick smiled wanly. "I was fixing it up for him before I left the job. I didn't think he'd be on me _this_ fast . . . It doesn't have anything to do with the painting," he added reassuringly.

Constantine had stepped out. He took the rag and began swiping the dash and the surrounding areas with more expertise than might be expected from an art dealer.

"We'll go back and get my car," he said with some asperity. "There isn't anything _else_ you forgot to mention, is there, Mr. McCormick?"

Mark shook his head, "Not that I can think of off-hand."

00000

Constantine led the way up a poorly lit back staircase to a third floor flat. McCormick had taken note of the name taped to the mailbox, 'C. Sigerest', and the fact that today's mail was uncollected.

"What if he's not home?"

"Carl's always home this time of day. It's when the light is best," Constantine added, as if he was explaining the obvious. "Besides, I have a key."

He knocked twice sharply on the back door, and, as predicted, there was a sound of movement from inside.

"It's me, Carl," Constantine announced himself loudly. This was followed a rattling from inside, as the chain was unhooked and the latch thrown back.

The man on the other side had already turned away, as if to go back to what he was doing, but, catching sight of McCormick, he paused and looked sharply at Constantine. The man was young, maybe twenty-five, pale blue eyes, sallow, as though he didn't get out much. The only color his face had was a few misguided daubs of dried paint.

"Just a customer, Carl," Constantine spoke jovially. "This is Mark; he has a little project for you."

"You wanted those other three done as soon as possible," Carl said wearily.

"This may take priority." Constantine uncapped the tube and worked the roll free, spreading it out on the kitchen table.

"What the hell happened to it?" Carl peered at it in disgust.

"Shotgun slug," McCormick replied laconically.

Carl nodded, as if the capacity for surprise had long ago departed him. "Repair or replace?" he asked Constantine.

"Replace, I believe."

"Good, it's easier." He turned and walked out of the room without another word. Constantine picked up the canvas and followed. Mark, eyebrows up a notch, went after him.

The next room was a studio of sorts, small but well-lit by two windows with the shades pulled up. The place had an odd, laboratory smell to it, overlaying the more expected turpentine odor of art. There was a brand-new Renoir on one of the two easels.

A table along one wall was covered with jars and tubes of paint, and other more mysterious chemicals that had masking tape labels, cracked and dry with smudged lettering. Canvases, s--some painted, some blank, k--were stacked against every other free vertical surface.

Carl was standing at a bookshelf to the right of the door, reaching for something up high, an oversized volume. He fanned it open to the right page with a minimum of searching.

"A Pierrot, from the late twenties. Rose period. Pretty straightforward. Won't have to age the canvas too much." He made a gesture to Constantine, who dutifully turned the painting backside forward. Carl nodded. "The canvas is always harder than the painting," he added, in a brief aside to McCormick. "How much are you getting for it?" he asked Constantine. "And from whom?"

"Now, Carl," Constantine shook his head, "you know that's not your end of things."

"And I keep telling you it makes a difference." The young man looked insistent. "Why should I paint for the Getty when you're going to pawn it off on some poor schmuck who doesn't know an oil from an acrylic?'

"Why, Carl, you astonish me," Constantine said, with a hint of menace beneath the playfulness. "I thought you weren't capable of anything but your best."

"When do you need it by?" Carl asked flatly.

"Sooner would be better. The owner will look less closely if we can offer it back to him say, in a day or two."

"It'll be more convincing if the paint is dry," Carl muttered.

McCormick stifled a laugh, earning a quick, sharp look from Constantine.

"Well, he's got a point." Mark shrugged. "I'm gonna need to be able to roll it up."

"Two days," Constantine insisted. "Turn some fans on. And the Renoir?" He gestured at the easel with a nod of his head.

"Done, dry," Carl sighed, "just needs a little processing."

"Later today?"

Carl nodded casually.

00000

"So, how much _should_ I ask for?" McCormick said, once they were back in the car.

"What were you thinking?"

McCormick frowned. "Um, maybe five thousand?"

"Why so little?" Constantine laughed.

"Because it's what I need—to get away, get lost for a while, out of state."

"You should ask for fifty thousand."

McCormick worked up an expression of doubtful astonishment. "That's a helluv'a lot for one painting."

"It's worth more than that."

"You don't know this guy Hardcastle; he's stubborn as hell. He'd probably say 'no' just on general principle, especially if he knew I was the one doing it."

"Tell him you already have another buyer lined up if he's not interested."

"I dunno," McCormick looked doubtful. "And what's your cut, anyway?"

Constantine smiled. "Seventy-five percent."

"_Seventy-five?_ For what?"

"Listen," Constantine looked over at the younger man; the smile had vanished, "without me you would have had nothing to sell at all. As it is you'll be getting more than twice what you would have thought to ask for yourself. I think you still owe _me_ on this deal."

"Owe you what?" McCormick feigned nervous disbelief, "I mean, besides the three-quarter share?"

"A better attitude, for one thing." Constantine had the smile back on, though this time it seemed less unctuous and more shark-like. "Some gratitude would be appropriate. You _did_, after all, come to me for help."

"Okay, yeah, I did. So thank you." McCormick shook his head slowly, "_Seventy_-five?"

"That's already settled," Constantine said firmly. "What we might talk about is _another_ deal."

"Like what?" McCormick asked dubiously.

"That depends on your level of competence," Constantine frowned, "which I cannot say I have been very impressed with so far."

McCormick drew himself up with some indignation, "Hell, I can get in and out of anywhere I need to get in and out of."

"You can handle commercial alarm systems?"

"Yeah."

"Safes?"

"Sure," Mark shrugged. "I'd need my equipment." Then he grumbled, "But I wouldn't do it for no 25/75 split."

"I was thinking forty-sixty," Constantine replied, back to unctuous.

"Who's the forty?"

"Why, you, of course. Sound reasonable? After all, if it was easy, and you didn't require guidance, you would have already done it, right?"

"Maybe," McCormick replied, keeping a reluctant edge to his voice, letting the one word answer both questions. "When?"

"Tonight I think. That would be best. After all, you said you needed money quickly."

McCormick nodded his agreement. "Where?"

"Ah, now that can wait," Constantine replied quietly.

00000

They parked down the block from Mark's old apartment and waited there for nearly twenty minutes, all at Constantine's insistence.

Finally, McCormick sighed with impatience, "Nothing's going on. Lemme just get in there and get my stuff."

Constantine silenced him with a look.

"I would suggest," the dealer drawled, "that you control this rash streak of yours while in _my_ employment, Mr. McCormick." But he pulled up along the curb until the car was directly across from the building.

Mark climbed out, wishing there was at least one wary neighbor to scurry away at the mere sight of him, but the street was deserted. He sauntered up the walkway, surprised to find Constantine coming along behind him. McCormick reached out and snatched the eviction notice off the door, almost before the other man could see it. He crumpled it in one fist and tossed it down. Then he reached into the mailbox and took out a small handful of letters, sorting through them quickly as he walked inside. Ads and bills, but one fortuitous letter from an old cellmate, with a return address at San Quentin. He set the stack down on the table with that one on top. He'd have to remember to thank Teddy.

It was less musty than when he'd opened the door that morning, but the place was still wonderfully shabby, everything that might be expected of the digs of a wayward thief. McCormick watched Constantine survey the room with an air of vague disgust, but very little surprise.

"Hurry up," the man said.

"Am I coming back?"

"Not if you're smart," Constantine said simply, "and not before the job."

McCormick nodded once, went to the closet and pulled out a small duffle. He opened drawers and grabbed out some clothes, basic black, stuffing them into it, then a few more things from the bathroom. Finally he reached under the bed and hauled out the black nylon pack.

"That's everything?" Constantine asked, with a mild glimmer of approval at this show of efficiency.

"Yeah, I guess so." Mark looked around briefly. "I've always traveled light."

Constantine was opening the door. As Mark passed the table he glanced down and, on an impulse that was his, not the thief's, picked up the letter and put it in his pocket.

00000

"I'll take you back to Carl's place," Constantine said, after they'd driven for a short while in silence. "I don't want you at the gallery all afternoon. Monique is just for show; she's not aware of _all_ aspects of the art trade."

McCormick was surprised to receive an explanation. _The old donkey was right; the apartment cinched it._ There was nothing like it, having your real life be as hopeless as the story you're trying to con someone with. He sighed.

"What'll Carl think of that?"

"He'll hate it," Constantine smiled, "but maybe it'll motivate him to get the Picasso done, having you under foot."

00000

McCormick went in the back, as Constantine had, and matched his knock on the door. This time it opened without much delay and Carl had begun to say, "What now?" before realizing Mark was alone. The artist grimaced. "He sent you over to 'encourage' me, huh? He should know by now, I don't like an audience."

"Not my idea," McCormick shrugged and stepped inside. The other man hadn't tried to stop him. "Anyway, I'm hired help now, not a customer."

Carl had turned away, just as abruptly as the last time. McCormick got the impression this wasn't a guy with a lot of social contacts. He followed him dutifully into the studio.

There was a blank, gessoed canvas, already stretched to the correct size, on the easel where the Renoir had been. On the other was the battered Picasso, restretched on a temporary frame using rubber padded clamps. The book that had been consulted earlier was still open on a smaller side table. Carl was over at the table, picking through his paint jars and tubes. It appeared to McCormick like things were well underway.

"Doesn't look like you need much encouragement," Mark said, as he took three finished paintings and a stack of art books off the ratty armchair in the corner of the room, and made himself comfortable.

"Ah, yes," Carl glanced over his shoulder, "that's where _he_ sits when he wants to be particularly annoying . . . No, I'm damn fast and he knows it." Carl shook his head. "He just likes to be in _control._"

McCormick nodded sympathetically. "Yup, I know the type." Then he took a chance; it might be too much, too soon, but Carl seemed in a fairly disgruntled mood. "So, how much does he pay you?"

The artist shot him a wary glance. "Not enough, but it's steady work. You're probably getting the 25/75, right?" Carl smiled when there was no immediate answer, just a chagrined look from McCormick. "Yeah, see, it's a control thing. Even he's not _that_ greedy, but he wants to make sure you understand, right from the start, who's the boss."

"And you put up with it?" McCormick shifted the conversation back.

"I like my work." Carl was looking rather intently down at the paints. Then he added, "Philo and I have an arrangement."

McCormick nodded again, this time to himself. Carl was still sorting through the tubes and hadn't looked up. He finally found what he wanted, then turned his attention to a jar full of brushes. McCormick yawned and looked at his watch. One o'clock. Constantine had said he'd be back around ten-thirty.

"You eaten yet?" He asked casually.

Carl shook his head.

"Pizza?" McCormick suggested. "Got someplace within walking distance?"

Carl glanced at him, "Yeah, um, sure. Angelo's—it's three blocks north."

"Everything?" McCormick got up, stretching.

"No anchovies." Carl sounded a little more relaxed. He was eyeing the painting. "The number's on the fridge."

McCormick placed the order and slipped out the back door, figuring that would allow him enough time to find another phone on the way to picking the pizza up. Among the hundred or so admonitions and bits of advice the judge had handed out to him over the last twenty-four hours, 'check in' had been repeated at least six times.

There was a drugstore at the next cross-street north, and he saw a phone just inside the door. He ducked inside and stood there a moment, rattling the change in his pocket. He'd had every intention of making a call when he'd suggested the pizza run, but now that the moment had arrived, he felt a peculiar reluctance.

Of course there were the questions he couldn't answer, like what the plan was for tonight, and that alone might be enough for Hardcastle to pull him off. But then there were also the questions he _could_ answer, and the first of them would be where and with whom he was spending the afternoon. And there wasn't anyway he could respond to that except with the name and address of a full-fledged accessory of Constantine's.

_And just when did you decide you didn't want to tell him that?_

Well, now, that was _another _question he couldn't answer. He turned away from the phone and stepped outside, consoling himself with the idea that Carl would make a better witness than a defendant, especially if Harper wanted Constantine on a murder charge, instead of mere theft and fraud. Somewhat reassured, he continued north at a leisurely pace.

00000

The door opened even as he raised the back of his free hand to rap on it. _He was watching for me._ Carl was wiping his hands on a rag he'd tucked in his belt and he motioned with his head toward the front room. Mark followed him, carrying a box and a six pack. As they passed the studio, McCormick saw the rough shaded outline of the painting already taking shape.

Carl looked back at him, noticing the direction of his glance. He shrugged and said, "Can't rush it," as though Mark might've expected him to have finished it during the pizza run.

McCormick laughed, "I don't even think Picasso painted _that _fast."

"Oh, you'd be surprised," Carl smiled. "_He_ was working from a live model. That's his son, Paul."

"Poor kid," McCormick looked over his shoulder again. "A clown suit." He shook his head. He put the box down on the coffee table, pulled one beer free and opened it as he sat down on the sofa.

"Philistine," Carl said mildly. He took the seat across, leaning back and stretching, like a man who'd spent too many hours standing up. "Beats the hell out of that second-rate Renoir I did yesterday. Renoir had some pretty bad days." He reached for a piece of pizza.

"Got napkins?" McCormick inquired.

"Um, no," Carl thought briefly, "paper towels. They're on the counter in the kitchen."

McCormick got up again and strolled toward the kitchen, stopping to look at a simply-framed painting that hung just inside the hallway. "This one's good." He looked more closely. "Van Gogh? You did it?"

"No," Carl laughed awkwardly. "That's a Davis."

"He's good."

"She," Carl corrected abruptly, then didn't say anything else for a moment. Mark thought he was finished speaking, but finally he went on, "Van Gogh's over-done and that one's too famous. _The Sunflowers_. Hell, the original's probably a fake," he added with some bitterness.

McCormick tilted his head, "Well, I like it. Nice color." He continued on to the kitchen. He returned a moment later, and put the roll of towels on the table between them, taking his seat again. Carl was sitting forward, pizza in hand, staring off into another place.

Mark grabbed a piece for himself and spoke casually, around the first mouthful, "So, how does this all work?"

"What?" Carl came back into focus and gave him a hard look. "You mean Constantine's part?"

McCormick shrugged, "Yeah."

Carl looked back down at the pizza in his hand, as if he was surprised to see it there. "Oh," he said quietly, "that's not my end of it." Silence again.

"Beer?" McCormick offered.

"No, not while I'm working."

Mark laughed. "You're not working; you're taking a lunch break." He pulled one free and held it out. Carl still shook his head.

"Don't even drink coffee. Makes the hand shake. You'd be surprised. It's an art." He smiled at his own unintended humor. Then, after a pause, he seemed to snap back a couple moments in the conversation. "This ransom thing, I'm not so sure that's a good idea. Who'd you steal it from?"

"A judge," McCormick said simply.

"Hell," Carl replied, with feeling. "Why?"

McCormick let his eyes narrow down. "_Revenge_," he said, and the intensity with which the word came out surprised him. "He's the guy who sent me to prison."

Carl was looking at him steadily. McCormick didn't doubt for a second that he had been convincing.

"You know," Carl replied slowly, "it's not a good idea to let your feelings get involved in these things. That's dangerous."

"He took a lot away from me," McCormick said. "Everything."

"Well," Carl said, "they can't take _everything_." He was staring toward the hallway. "There's always something left . . . though they sure as hell _try_." Carl stood up and took a couple of steps before adding, "I better get back at it." He walked out, still holding his half-eaten piece of pizza.

McCormick watched him go, then exhaled slowly. _That was . . . interesting_. He took one last swig of beer and carried the pizza box back into the kitchen.

00000

Hardcastle picked up the phone and dialed the familiar number for the third time since noon, but this time he let it ring. Four hours seemed a plenty decent interval, patient as hell. The voice at the other end, Frank's, was wearily expectant, as if he'd known who the caller would be before he picked up.

"Nothing, Milt. No word. Mark went in; they came out. They left in a car. Constantine came back. That's all so far. You haven't heard from him?"

"No," the judge grumbled, looking at his watch again. "Not yet. Can't you send somebody inside?"

"To do what?" Frank asked patiently. "Besides, I'm a little short on guys who can pass for upscale art connoisseurs. Anyway, there _was_ a little slip-up. A beat car ran the plate on the Impala Mark was driving. I wish you'd _told_ me he'd 'borrowed' another one."

"Hell, what happened? I talked to the owner at eight-thirty this morning." Hardcastle's voice rose in questioning irritation. "It was a loaner from his ex-boss. I straightened it out with him."

"He must've already reported it. Eight-thirty, huh? Well, it takes a while to turn it around. Anyhow, the officer reports that your kid took 'evasive maneuvers'. Apparently he lost him inside of two blocks."

"Hah," the judge said, leaving it at that. He felt the edge of a smile, which he beat down, even though Frank couldn't see it.

"So, when was he supposed to check in with you?" Frank asked, a little pointedly.

"Come on, you know these things don't work that way," Hardcastle replied, more to reassure himself than the other man.

Harper seemed to pick up on the uncertainty. "You want an APB?"

"God, no," the judge said emphatically. "It's only four o'clock."

"You trust him, huh?"

Hardcastle thought about that one for a moment.

"Yeah, for now. He knows what's at stake."

"I hope so," Frank replied.

00000

McCormick awoke with a crick in his neck and a strange sense of disorientation. _The chair . . . Carl's studio._ The pieces fell back into place. He realized he must've fallen asleep for a while. The light was different now; it was edging on toward evening. Carl was standing over near the table again and the smell of turpentine was stronger. He was cleaning off some brushes.

"You snore," Carl observed.

"Sorry," McCormick apologized. "Must've been tireder than I thought. Late night."

"I'll bet," Carl observed dryly. "And the getting shot at."

"Yeah, that'll take it out of you." McCormick grinned. "Hope I didn't bother you too much."

"No," the other man shook his head. "Beats the hell out of, 'Too damn much cerulean, Carl,'" he managed a fair imitation of Constantine's arch inflections.

"Hey," McCormick looked at the painting, perfect except for a slight remaining glisten, "you finished it?"

"Yeah," Carl shrugged deprecatingly, "It's a Picasso, not a Rembrandt."

"Easier?"

"Less paint, at any rate. They dry faster."

McCormick stood up and took a closer look at the copy, then the original. Finally he looked up at the artist again and asked, "Are there any Sigerest's?"

"Hah," Carl smiled thinly. "You couldn't even _give_ those away. This is what I do. I'm a natural-born hack artist." He looked around the studio at the stacks of paintings and shrugged again. "I won't say there isn't a thrill, though, when one of them winds up in a collection."

"So, you're not in it for the money?" McCormick asked.

"Like Philo?" Carl asked. "Never."

"Just for the art, then?" Mark smiled.

"Damn the art," his answer was sharp and swift. "Damn the collectors. Damn all of them."

00000

Hardcastle sat at his desk, watching the phone. Sarah had come and gone. The plate of food remained untouched. She returned one last time, gave him a disapproving look, and departed with it. He tried to remember the last time he'd been this frustrated, and decided quickly that it had been last Wednesday, in his own chambers. _Just six days ago?_ A lot of water under the bridge since then, but maybe not as much as it had seemed.

The ring of the phone cut into this thought. He pounced on it and answered with a gruff, "What the hell took you–?" only to be cut off by Frank's voice.

"We got a problem, Milt."

The judge froze for a moment, then said, "Problem, Frank?"

"Yeah, Constantine pulled a switch. Left the gallery at seven. Took a cab to the airport."

"You think he's booked on us?" Hardcastle said doubtfully.

"Maybe, maybe not. We lost track of him there. We're checking the flights, and the car rental places. It'll take a while. Maybe Mark was right; he smelled a rat and backed off."

"Then where the hell's _he_?" It was obvious that the judge meant McCormick and his tone was halfway between worry and anger.

00000

Mark and Carl had shared cold pizza but not much more conversation. The artist seemed pensive after his little outburst. McCormick tried a few openings, but now all the doors were locked and the blinds drawn.

He'd changed into his work clothes around ten, and was sitting by the front window with his bags, watching for Constantine, at least fifteen minutes before the appointed time. Carl was in and out of the room, silent, pale, nervous. Like a man who'd said too much but didn't know how to take any of it back without drawing more attention to it. McCormick let him sweat and wished he could hang around for the outcome.

Finally he asked, "Should I take the Renoir?"

Carl shook his head. "No, he'll come up if he wants it. He likes to look at them in the daylight before he takes them."

"Control, eh?" McCormick commented mildly.

The other man twitched as if he'd been touched by a live wire. Then, after a moment, he gave Mark a more subdued, but knowing look.

"Oh, you'll see."

McCormick saw a car pull up below, not the one he'd been in this afternoon. He craned to see over the sill. It was Constantine who stepped out to the curb and looked up.

"My ride," Mark got up, heading past Carl to the door. "What should I tell him about the Picasso?"

"Tomorrow evening. Not sooner than seven, it needs twenty-four hours."

Mark headed down the stairs, not certain if his host was more worried or relieved to see him go.

00000

Constantine was leaning against the side of the car. Mark looked it over once quickly and asked, "Rental?"

The older man nodded. "It's better this way."

"Want me to drive?" McCormick asked.

"No," Constantine said firmly. "I think this calls for less exuberance. Get in."

Mark threw his duffle in the back. The knapsack he put between his feet on the floor.

"How was your afternoon with Carl?" Constantine asked without much apparent curiosity.

"Interesting," McCormick replied. "We had a pizza. The Picasso is done. Or it will be by tomorrow evening."

Constantine smiled. "Carl's a good boy, a decent workman, but woefully lacking in original talent. He'd be lost without me." He said nothing more as he drove on.

"So," McCormick finally said, trying for nonchalance. "Where are we going?"

"A gallery. Small. I'm after some very specific pieces. Don't worry; I have _photographs _of the ones I want. You must also get me the papers that go with the paintings; that is of prime importance. Do you understand?"

McCormick nodded. "Papers, right," trying to suppress the vague tingling notion that had taken possession of him since they'd turned onto Ventura Boulevard. "How many art galleries are there in LA, anyway?" he asked, more to himself than to Constantine.

But the other man shot him a glance and answered, "Hundreds, I suppose."

"That's what I figured," McCormick said quietly. "Can I see the photos?"

Constantine nodded and reached into the inner pocket of his suit coat, removing a small envelope. He passed it over to McCormick. Inside were three postcard-sized pictures, on slick paper, looking as if they'd been cut from a book or a catalog. Mark took a penlight off his belt a thumbed it on. The top picture was the Guillaumin.

"That one is the most important." Constantine nodded at it as he drove. "The other two are landscapes by Sisley. It is possible that one or the other has been sold already, but I haven't heard any reports. The names of the pieces are on the back of the photos. The papers will be in the office, most likely in the safe."

"Maybe," McCormick frowned. He was trying to remember if he'd seen the other paintings. He thought on the right-hand wall, half-way to the front. He was trying not to think of what Hardcastle would say about this whole thing. _Results count for something_, He was desperately hoping they wouldn't count for ten-to-fifteen.

Constantine pulled up to the curb, around the corner from the gallery. "It's up there, and to the right. There is an alley back behind us about fifty feet. I'll be here when you're done, unless you set off the alarms, in which case you are on your own. You understand?"

"Well," McCormick drawled, "that's refreshingly honest."

"I believe in encouraging my employees to do their best."

McCormick looked up and down the deserted street, then hefted his tools and stepped out of the car. He was down the alley a moment later, standing next to a familiar dumpster.

Now it was merely a matter of modus operandi—the tried and true vs. the Hardcastle Method. _What the hell, he's gonna know I did it either way._ He was up on the dumpster and from there to the fire escape a few seconds later. He regretted having locked up after himself last time, but the end result was the same. He wondered if Truitt's landlord was typical of landlords everywhere, in which case he had nothing to worry about in the plywood and acoustic tile department.

He was not disappointed.

Dropping down directly into the office, he checked the top of the safe—still covered with papers, but at least Truitt had made good on his promise to put the newer provenances inside. Little matter, that, he hadn't had time to change the combination. On the other hand, Truitt _had_ found time to neaten up inside, and McCormick quickly located the three envelopes among the newly-alphabetized collection.

Mark sighed. He took what he needed, closed the door and spun the dial. He doubted that it would be very many minutes after Truitt's arrival in the morning before the theft was noticed, but he felt obligated to give it his best shot.

He went directly to the Guillaumin, removing it carefully from its frame and stretchers, and rolling it neatly. The two Sisleys were hanging where he had suspected. Once he had them packaged, he stepped behind the counter, deactivated the alarm, and exited the back door. He checked his watch. Twelve minutes and forty seconds. It had been mostly the stretchers.

He approached the car from behind and was mildly gratified to see Constantine jump a little in startlement at his rapid return. "Let's go," Mark said quietly as he stowed the roll of canvases in the back seat and stepped into the car.

Constantine turned sideways and looked over his right shoulder. "You got them all? The papers, too?"

"As ordered," McCormick replied flatly, as he took the envelopes from the top of his pack.

"Give them to me," Constantine held out his hand.

Mark tried not to look too eager as he handed the papers over. _I think we've moved past entrapment here._ And, if results counted for anything, he felt marginally less insecure about the last fifteen minutes.

Constantine took the papers out and shuffled through them briefly, by the light of the street lamp. Then he smiled and tucked them away inside his coat pocket.

"Very good, Mr. McCormick."

"Now what?" Mark said. "When do I see some money?" He thought that was pretty in character, though what he really wanted to know was how soon he could get away and use a phone.

"Patience. It doesn't work like that." Constantine smiled, starting the engine and edging the car away from the curb like a man who wants no one to notice he's been there. "We'll take these back to Carl. He'll need a few days. Then the copies, and their provenances, go to overseas buyers. I've already lined them up. And the originals go to interested parties here, people who won't fuss too much about the paperwork—true aficionados."

McCormick looked irritated. "How long? And what do I do in the meantime, bunk with Carl?"

"Do what you want." Constantine sighed. "I'll advance you a couple hundred." He'd reached into another pocket as he drove, and pulled out an envelope. "But first you need to take those," he waved the envelope toward the canvases, "back to Carl. He'll know what to do. Tomorrow evening you pick up the Picasso. Make your own arrangements for that painting, but when I see you next, you will have either _it_ or $37,500 dollars for me." Constantine's voice had become hard, with an edge of menace. "I have _resources_ . . . and many old friends. You understand?"

McCormick thought about that dumpster in Fresno and felt a sudden twinge of relief that he wasn't actually a wayward art thief. _Poor Carl._

"Yeah," he managed a little nervous sullenness, "I understand."

They were back at Carl's. Mark climbed out, relieved to be quit of this man. Even if the artist was still in he same mood as when he'd left, it would be an improvement on Constantine in godfather mode.

He trudged up the back stairs one more time, knocked, heard no movement, and knocked again harder—reluctantly slow footsteps, a grudgingly opened door, and a grunt of greeting.

"'Hi' to you, too, Carl." McCormick pushed the door the rest of the way open himself, and eased inside. The man was in a t-shirt and jeans, but didn't look like he'd dozed off.

"That was fast," Carl said frowning. "How many?"

"Three." McCormick held out the roll. "A Guillaumin and two Sisleys."

Carl looked at him and shook his head slowly. "Do you even know who they are?"

"Nope," Mark replied cheerfully, glad to see that Carl was out of his funk, "but I figured you would."

"Sisley," Carl grunted again. "Landscapes. He probably wants 'em by the day after tomorrow, too."

McCormick shrugged. "He didn't say, but _I'm_ kind of in a hurry." He carried the roll of canvas past Carl toward the studio room.

Carl followed him, muttering, "Don't you have anywhere else to be?"

"Not really. You got a sofa." McCormick was looking around for someplace to spread out his finds. He turned to Carl ands asked, "Where do you want these?"

Carl scratched his head wearily and pointed to the corner. "Just give me the Guillaumin first. You know which one that is, right?"

"Yeah, Constantine had postcards. Very handy."

"Philistine," Carl said, this time almost fondly. "I don't suppose you know how to gesso?"

"Nope."

"It's sort of like whitewashing a fence."

McCormick made a face.

"Hell," Carl said mildly, "_you_ at least had a nap." He took the canvas and then handed Mark a brush and jar and pointed him to a blank canvas on the one easel. "Go to it. Try to keep it off the floor." Carl was attaching the painting to another stretcher, out of reach of the flinging drops of white. "And if you think I'll let you off if you do a bad enough job, you're dead wrong."

McCormick smiled and settled down to whitewashing, waiting for an opening. He was increasingly worried about just how _detached_ Constantine had managed to stay from the whole process. _He pointed and I fetched. Now Carl has the goods._ There were the provenance papers, of course, though those would be damn easy to hide. _It's Carl's testimony we need. He knows everything. _Mark was reluctant to return to Gull's Way without something tangible.

Carl studied the Guillaumin closely.

"How much is it worth?" McCormick asked casually.

Carl glanced up at him. "Not as much as people are willing to pay for it. It's some paint on canvas. It's _worth_ about five or six dollars, not counting the wood for the stretchers, plus five hours of my time."

"Yours?"

"Or Guillaumin's, what's the difference?" Carl shrugged. "Even people aren't unique." His voice had gone hard and regretful. "We're all interchangeable parts." Carl frowned at McCormick. "He hires you; you get careless or sloppy. He hires somebody else. And I'm only marginally less replaceable. There are other people who can do what I do."

"So, could you quit if you wanted?" Mark asked with only mild apparent interest.

Carl looked at him pensively. "I've never tried." Then he turned back to the painting. "This guy is a lesser impressionist. I'll feel right at home." And he moved over to the other table to gather his paints.

00000

By one in the morning they had compromised. It had been a missing persons report on McCormick, not an APB. Now, nearly eight hours later, Frank sat across the desk from Hardcastle, having just finished giving a full update, which hadn't taken long. . No record of plane ticket or rental car had been found at the airport under Constantine's name.

"Doesn't mean anything," Hardcastle groused. "A guy like him could be using half a dozen fake IDs."

"Well, he hasn't been back to the gallery, or his condo, so something's going on. He's being awfully careful. That's all we really know."

"Planning a robbery, or covering up a murder?" Hardcastle asked.

Frank didn't have a chance to weigh in on that question; the sound of a car pulling up the drive, caught their attention.

"What the—?" Hardcastle stopped in mid-sentence, seeing the passenger exit from the back seat of the taxi, take his bag and a very familiar knapsack, and settle up with the driver.

McCormick had cast one quick look over his shoulder at the house. It was not long enough to be certain, but Hardcastle would have pegged the expression as at least 'concerned'_. He'll be a lot more than that when I get through with him._ He turned back and caught Frank with an almost-smile on his face, which earned him a scowl from the judge.

"The prodigal returns," Harper said dryly.

The prodigal seemed to be hanging around on the porch an awfully long time, Hardcastle decided, and then his arrival was announced by a very circumspect knock, rather than a ringing of the bell.

"I'll get it, Sarah," the judge shouted, and he was on his feet.

He arranged his expression into stern disapproval as he opened the door. He'd be damned if he'd let the kid see one iota of worry after pulling a stunt like this. Yet he couldn't help giving him the once-over—no apparent damage, just scruffy as hell, wearing the same sport-coat and shirt he'd left home in twenty-four hours ago.

"'Morning, Judge." McCormick managed a hang-dog level of contriteness that Hardcastle would not have suspected he had in him.

_Must have screwed up even worse than I thought. _Hardcastle glowered some more and stepped back to let the kid in. He walked by, cautiously.

"Wasn't sure if you'd be up yet," McCormick added politely, as if he'd just stopped by for a chat.

"Oh, we've _been_ up," and the judge noticed the younger man looked a little frayed around the edges, too.

Mark stepped further into the hallway and paused as he came in sight of Frank, sitting by the desk.

"Is the ABP out yet?" he smiled wanly at the lieutenant.

Frank shook his head. "You're only a missing person, so far."

Hardcastle shot his friend a warning look over Mark's shoulder, but the kid had already walked into the den and was dropping into the nearest chair, with a look of immense relief.

"You mean I'm not under arrest?"

"Not_ yet_," Hardcastle grumbled. "What have we got on you so far?"

"Um," McCormick hesitated, "well—"

The phone rang. Mark appeared to jump at the sudden intrusion. Hardcastle stepped past him and picked it up. The man at the other end sounded official and asked for Lt. Harper. The judge handed the phone over and turned his attention back to McCormick, who had turned a shade paler.

He hadn't had a chance to pursue the interrogation further before he heard Frank say, 'How many paintings were taken?' and 'Yeah, I know the guy.' It only took one look at McCormick's face and Hardcastle knew the whole story.

"Truitt?" he asked in exasperation.

Mark nodded.

"_Your_ idea?" Exasperation had turned to anger.

"_No_," the younger man protested vehemently.

Frank hung the phone up; his angry stare joined Hardcastle's. "Truitt went to his place early this morning. The Guillaumin, and two more paintings by a guy named Sib-something—"

"_Sis_ley," Mark corrected. "Minor impressionist."

"In through the second floor, down through the ceiling. Out through the back door. How could Truitt _not _recognize the MO," Frank shook his head. "He wants blood—yours preferably, but mine will do."

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant," Mark's words were directed to Harper but his eyes were on the judge.

"Why the hell didn't you check in?" Hardcastle demanded.

"I didn't know where we were going until we were there. You _knew_ he was going to ask me to do something illegal. That was the whole idea, wasn't it?" Mark asked. Now he was talking directly to the judge. "If I'd backed out, I never would've gotten next to him again. As it was, he played it very close to the vest. It was me and Carl taking most of the risk."

"Carl?" the judge asked.

"That's who I was with, most of yesterday and last night. Carl Sigerest, he's the artist who copies the pieces."

"You mean the forger," Hardcastle said.

"He's the alibi," Frank said, leaning forward, thumbing through the file Hardcastle had on the desk, stopping at one of the reports from two years back. "Sigerest, a painter. They were supposed to have been arranging a show of his stuff at the time of Davis's death."

"It makes perfect sense." Mark shook his head. "Constantine controls Carl. An alibi from him is no alibi at all."

Hardcastle frowned. "You think you can turn this guy?"

"I dunno," Mark hesitated. "I'd really like to. We talked a lot last night. A couple of times I thought I was close. He's unhappy. He knew the woman; I don't know how well. He has one of her paintings on his wall. It's a Van Gogh . . ." His choppy recital trailed off on this incongruous note. He sat there, looking tired. After a moment he turned to Frank and asked, "What about Truitt?"

Frank's face was set in a grim expression. "Well, I better head over there and try to settle him down."

"What are you going to tell him?" Mark asked.

"The truth," Frank said, "or most of it."

"Okay, give me a few minutes to get cleaned up and changed and I'll be ready." Mark got up slowly, looking down at himself. "I don't look very convincing right now." He headed for the door, leaving the other two men speechless in his wake.

00000

Frank drove, pulling up conveniently between the evidence technician's van and a black and white. There hadn't been much conversation on the way over. His two passengers got out and waited for him on the sidewalk, standing silently. It was only after he joined them that he caught a subtle change in the dynamics. McCormick turned and stepped quickly toward the gallery's front entrance, leading the way through the door.

Truitt, standing near an empty space on the wall, looked up at McCormick with an expression of shocked recognition, followed a second later by the even greater surprise of seeing who was with him.

"You've haven't arrested him?" he sputtered indignantly, as Frank caught up to the younger man.

"Well—"

"We need to talk, Mr. Truitt," McCormick kept his voice low and calm, gesturing toward a table near the back of the gallery.

Indignation had been replaced by bewilderment, as the older man allowed himself to be guided to a seat.

"You're denying that—"

"No, "McCormick interrupted emphatically. "I did it. I just need to explain _why_."

He sat down across from the other man. Frank watched the judge move over to a place not very far behind him. Harper found his own spot, out of the way near the wall. He listened to Mark explain about something way more important than art thefts; taking a photograph out of his back pocket. _Where'd he get that? _Frank wondered, and he saw Milt was a little startled, too.

Truitt was listening, uncertain at first, but gradually with the occasional nod of understanding. But it wasn't until Mark dropped Constantine's name into the story, that Truitt's face took on a knowing expression. He muttered one word. It was surprising, coming from someone as genteelly old-fashioned as him.

"I've suspected for quite some time that he was no good," Truitt added with satisfaction. Then his inflection rose, "But _murder?_"

"We haven't proven that," Frank amended hastily.

"But we'd _like_ to," Mark jumped back in.

Truitt had a small but genuine smile now. Then he asked, with a brief flash of guilt, "But my paintings?"

"They're safe," McCormick gave his most sincere smile. "You'll get them back; I promise." He paused, and looked thoughtful. "Might even add some value to them, kind of a cachet, a story like that to go with them, used to catch a murderer."

Frank had a nearly overwhelming urge to yank Mark out of there before Truitt started thanking him for burglarizing his place. He could see, from his expression, that the judge was similarly possessed, probably on the grounds that whatever the kid got away with once, would surely become a habit.

Frank nudged his way back into the conversation, saying that they had a lot of work to do and they'd better get on with it. Truitt was still nodding benignly in agreement. As Mark rose to go, the older man reached out and put a hand on his sleeve.

"I don't suppose you remembered any of your business cards this time?"

Mark paused, smiled, and said, "Sorry, slipped my mind again." He paused. "I've been . . . _busy_."

"Well, next time," Truitt rose to show them out.

Harper ushered Mark toward the door, hoping the spell would hold. Hardcastle brought up the rear, his smile a lot thinner than Truitt's.

Just outside the door, Frank let out a pent-up sigh. "Well, we'd _better_ find some evidence against Constantine now . . . Mark, did you have to be _that_ honest?"

"Sorry, Lieutenant," McCormick shrugged. "I guess I'm too tired to lie coherently. Anyway, he seemed like someone who's not _just _in it for the money . . . He has principles. I thought maybe he was the kind of guy who thinks people are more important than things."

Frank cast a glance back at Milt, who was still following along behind. The judge's smile was not entirely gone.

00000

Frank felt a pang of regret for the silence of that morning's drive. This was nearly two hours into the low-grade wrangling, between Milt and the kid, that had replaced it. The lieutenant reminded himself that they were, all three of them, beginning to feel the strain of twenty-four hours with very little sleep, and the frustration that came from Constantine's success in evading police surveillance. Now they'd been parked a half-block down from Constantine's gallery for over an hour, and the continued confinement was wearing on them.

"All we've got is this Sigerest guy." The judge returned to his main argument. "I say we go in there, bust him with the paintings, use that as a lever to get him to cooperate."

McCormick sighed audibly from the back seat. "So you find the paintings in his studio; how you gonna prove he knew what they were?" Frank noticed the younger man skirt carefully around the word 'stolen'. "And it's not illegal to _make_ copies, only to sell them."

"Don't lecture me on what's legal," Hardcastle grumbled. "And if you'd just checked in as you were told yesterday, none of this—"

Frank gritted his teeth and blurted, "Do I have to stop this car?" He garnered two silent astonished stares in the sudden quiet; the car had not so much as budged since a little past one-thirty. Taking advantage of the element of surprise, he pushed on.

"Listen, Milt. I hate to say it, but the kid's got a point." He saw the younger man in the rear-view mirror, starting to smile. "We don't have a lot on this Sigerest guy except receiving stolen property, and since Mark here did the stealing," the smile had taken on a rather rigid quality, "I think even a first-year public defender wouldn't have too much trouble getting that one thrown out."

Both the other men now shared glum expressions. Milt was starting to mutter again, something about 'not following instructions', while the back-seat passenger managed a surprisingly petulant look for a hardened ex-denizen of the California penal system.

Frank nipped them both in the bud. "Milt, I think you ought to give Mark a crack at Sigerest. His willing testimony on the Davis case is really what we want."

"He's expecting me to come for the Picasso later on," Mark added eagerly.

"But, if Mark can't budge him in, say, an hour, we'll go in and pick him up. Maybe it'll shake him up a little." Frank looked to his side; the judge seemed a little more reconciled.

"And what'll we be doing while McCormick's trying to talk some sense into the forger?"

Mark leaned forward a little "There's a woman in there, her name's Monique, 'bout twenty-two." He glanced over the seat at Harper's rumpled suit and Hardcastle's casual shirt. "Too bad you don't look a little more prosperous," he nodded at the judge, "but at least it's an Izod."

"Smart mouth _and_ a fashion critic," Harper said dryly.

McCormick ignored the remark. "Constantine said she wasn't in on the other side of his business, but you'd be surprised what the underlings know sometimes. As long as I'm burning our bridges, you might as well go talk to her. Just drop me off by the Impala first."

"_One_ hour," the judge reminded him firmly.

"Yeah," then he turned to Frank, "and make sure the guy you got watching the place knows I'm coming. I don't want another repeat with the car."

"I _told _you that's fixed," Hardcastle insisted.

"Yeah."

00000

McCormick parked a half block down from Carl's apartment, only a few cars behind an unmarked Dodge Monaco, long in the tooth and short on chrome, clearly a police vehicle. He glanced sideways at the occupant as he strolled by, a middle-aged guy who shopped for his suits where Harper did. The man studiously looked away. McCormick smiled, relishing the idea of being ignored by a police officer.

He went in the front door this time, found Sigerest's bell, and pushed it. A few seconds passed and he was on the verge of going round to the back stairs, when he heard footsteps coming down. _At least he's awake. That's a start._ McCormick hadn't been sure; it was nearly four, but Carl had still been hard at it, on the first of the Sisley's, when he'd left at eight this morning. He saw the man through the door, looking put out and wiping his hands on a rag.

Carl opened the door and scowled at him. He was still in his paint-stained t-shirt, this time with the addition of some landscape colors and a smattering of ochre. "What are you doing here?" the artist muttered.

"The Picasso," McCormick reminded him.

Carl frowned. "I said twenty-four hours, _seven_ P.M.

Mark shrugged. "I know, he said he wants it now. But I'll wait if it's not quite dry." He pushed his way past Carl, onto the first-floor landing. The artist looked at him suspiciously but gave way, letting him pass. McCormick mounted the steps. Carl hurried to catch up. "How are you doing on the other ones?"

"Oh, good enough," Carl answered vaguely. "I'm done for today," he added more definitively.

McCormick laughed. "I thought you never quit."

The artist slipped past him into the front room, nodding. "Yeah, it never seems to end, does it?"

"Can I see 'em?" Mark asked casually.

Carl gave him a sharp look. "I said I'm almost done. He doesn't need to send _you_ over here every couple of hours to check up on me," he added, with a certain emphasis.

McCormick held a hand up, placatingly, "No problem, just curious." He said, as he sat down on the sofa. "Got any of those beers left?" he asked, trying to get back on the right footing.

The other man looked at him sullenly for a moment and then nodded. He turned and left the room before McCormick could offer to get them.

Mark sat back. He'd gone wrong almost from the moment he'd arrived. He looked down at his watch. Even with the driving time he'd negotiated out of Harper and the judge, he was already down to fifty-two minutes, with a promise that he'd be out on the sidewalk promptly when the hour was up. Maybe it would help if he could persuade Carl to cut loose and join him in a beer, anything to get the man to relax and listen for a minute.

He wandered back down the hall, ignoring the door to the studio; it wouldn't help if he pissed the artist off any further. He stepped into the kitchen and saw Carl already pouring the beers into two glasses. The man seemed distracted and almost jumped when Mark cleared his throat.

"Shit," Carl turned and smiled sheepishly, "you scared me. I'm not all that used to company." He picked up the glasses. His mood, though still temperamental, seemed to be on the upswing.

McCormick looked past him to the counter, next to the sink, at a sprinkling of white powder on a scrap of paper. The dark pupils, and general twitchiness, now came into sharper focus. _So, there's that to consider as well_. Five paintings in three days, and no signs of showing much of a profit. _Maybe Constantine is his supplier, too._

Mark smiled impassively and followed Carl back to the other room, taking a seat again on the sofa. Carl sat down across from him and offered a silent toast before taking his first sip.

McCormick smiled, "Workers of the world, unite?"

"You have nothing to lose but your chains." Carl rejoindered bitterly, then took a swig.

_Bingo_. Mark smiled again, and took a long swallow of his own.

00000

A moment after they stepped out of the car, Frank realized he'd been outflanked again. This time it was Milt who barreled ahead through the door of the gallery. Frank, wondering idly just when he had lost his grip on this investigation, glanced over his shoulder to see if Hennessy, the surveillance guy, was paying attention.

The skinny girl minding the shop had apparently learned that rich guys above the age of sixty couldn't be expected to have any fashion sense. She moved in on Milt like a lamprey, and only failed to actually attach herself because of a quick maneuver and a stern look from the older man. Frank smiled. He'd only rated a quick bored glance.

"May I help you?" she asked, and the words were clearly directed at Hardcastle.

"We're looking for Mr. Constantine," the judge replied.

The girl frowned, the first genuine expression Frank had seen cross her face. "You have an appointment?"

"Old friends, many years," Hardcastle smiled. "Just thought we'd drop by and see how Philo is getting along."

"Well," the frown deepened, "he's usually here by eleven." She looked a little miffed. "Today he didn't come and he didn't call. You could leave a message for him."

Hardcastle sighed windily. "Any ideas where he might be? We'd really hoped to see him today."

Her eyes narrowed. She actually appeared to be thinking. Her gaze was now on Harper. "He's not in some kind of trouble, is he?"

"Not yet," Harper replied blandly.

Things got quiet. She seemed to be turning this statement over in her mind. She swallowed once. Frank was one of those guys who really didn't have to show his ID to get the general concept across, and the idea that the police might be looking for her boss did not seem to astonish her.

"Maybe _Carl_ knows where he is." She said the name as though she was talking about something that scurries under the kitchen cabinet when the light is turned on.

"Carl Sigerest?" Harper inquired.

She nodded. "Carl. There was a message from him on the machine this morning, when I came in."

Hardcastle shot Frank a look. "We'd like to hear that," he said to the girl.

"Um, I guess," she shrugged; she hadn't been able to hold onto the frown for very long. "It isn't very exciting; it's just Carl."

She led them back to a rear room, half workspace, half office, full of art clutter and shipping materials. The phone was propped on the end of a shelf, holding down a stack of receipts and an auction catalog. She hit the blinking red button.

"Philo?" the voice was worried and a little sharp. "I've got a problem with that Picasso you wanted me to look at. I think you need to come over and see for yourself." There was no farewell, just an abrupt disconnect.

Hardcastle looked at Harper again. He shook his head. "There wasn't anything wrong with it . . . I mean, _before_ I put the slug through it." The he turned back to the girl. "Does Carl call here often?"

"No, hardly ever," she replied. "Mr. Constantine calls _him_ most of the time. He sends him pieces for evaluation . . . I've only met him _once_," she shivered delicate disapproval of a non-specific type.

Hardcastle looked down at the phone, then cocked his head at the girl. "This was here when you came in today? What time was that?"

"Nine o'clock," she sniffed. "I had some paperwork to do. And I haven't been able to leave since. If you see Mr. Constantine could you—?"

The judge cut her off. "Frank, you called for the other surveillance at—"

"About nine-thirty."

"Carl might've left a message somewhere else. Constantine might be there now."

"All day?" Frank asked. "That's a reach. Why?"

"How the hell should I know?" Hardcastle shook his head in frustration. "There's nothing wrong with that Picasso, either, except for the obvious."

Frank looked down at his watch. "You know he's only had a half-hour."

"It'll be another twenty minutes before we get there," the judge said worriedly. "I think that's plenty."

00000

Mark studied his nearly-empty glass and concluded that he had lost his tolerance for alcohol. Nothing surprising there, after two years of forced abstinence followed by six months of infrequent opportunity. Still, _one _beer? That seemed a little unusual.

_One beer, no sleep_. He put the glass down, unsteadily, and turned his attention back to Carl, who'd been saying something.

"Wha'?" he asked, hearing it come out a little slurred, and then laughed as he corrected himself. "I mean . . . what?" _There, better that time._ Carl was giving him an odd look.

"I said," Carl began to repeat himself more slowly, "You don't seem like the type to be working for Philo."

"Oh . . ." McCormick momentarily lost track of a thought and then stumbled over it again, "you'd be surprised."

"Surprised how?" Carl pressed.

"Umm . . ." Mark blinked a couple of times. "I mean, if you have to." The thought eluded him one more time. He chased it down. "If you're _scared_ enough." He squinted at Carl, trying to get a little more focused. The other man looked strangely pale, and a little blurry.

"Yeah, well," Carl finally said, "Constantine knew how to push people's buttons . . . You need to finish that drink."

Mark stared at him, though staring didn't seem to help. There was something in what Carl'd just said that ought to be significant, if he could just think about it long enough. _Oh, yeah, 'knew'._

He opened his mouth to comment on this, but out came, "I think I've had enough."

"Nope." Carl shook his head and added kindly, "The best part's at the bottom."

Mark was trying to come up with a polite excuse, something besides, 'I think I'm going to be sick.' When he saw the other man pull something that looked suspiciously like Constantine's .38 from alongside the chair cushion he was sitting on.

He blinked again, and had one whole, completely-formed thought. _I've made a really bad judgment call here._

He squinted down at his watch, trying to make some sense out of the placement of the hands. _Twenty-five minutes left_. He reached forward and, with elaborate clumsiness, knocked his glass to the floor.

"Oops," he smiled sadly.

Carl shook his head again and said, "Don't worry; I'll make you another."

00000

"Who do you have over there?" Hardcastle asked.

"Chalmers," Frank answered. "He pays attention."

"Philo might have seen him pull up this morning and decided to stay put at Sigerest's." Hardcastle leaned forward a little, as if to urge them through the rush hour traffic. "But what was all that about the Picasso?"

"Dunno," Frank replied. "Maybe Carl got suspicious about Mark; he wanted to talk to Constantine about it. I think our Carl is no boy scout . . . Milt, how the hell does someone come out of San Quentin with an over-developed sense of trust?"

Hardcastle was rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Oh, no, Frank, it's not universal; he only has faith in the _bad_ guys."

Frank shook his head and smiled momentarily. Then they headed into yet another gridlock.

"Whaddaya think, send Chalmers up there?"

The judge checked his watch again and then said, hesitantly, "Dunno what we're sending him into; I'd rather—"

"Do it yourself?" Frank finished. "Don't trust the good guys anymore, Milt? Well, he's gonna get his full hour."

00000

"Drink."

Someone was tapping him on the shoulder with something a little knobby. _Oh, the .38_. The glass had gotten back in his hand somehow and another hand was guiding it for him.

"A little more," Carl said insistently.

Mark took a drink and coughed. The breathing and swallowing thing had gotten complicated. He was staring at Carl's t-shirt, now at eye level just to his left. The rust-red spots he'd noticed earlier had turned to dull brown.

"Where's Cosan . . . Consan . . . Where's Philo?" he muttered.

"In the studio," Carl replied flatly. "Just a little more," he urged.

00000

Hardcastle was out of the car almost before Frank had it in park. The lieutenant was not far behind. He signaled Chalmers from the sidewalk and the detective joined the two of them for a hurried conference. No one in or out, he assured them, except for the guy he'd been told about, and that was nearly an hour ago.

Harper filled him in on the sketchy details. "You take the back; we'll give you three minutes. I'll announce—"

"Like _hell_ you will," the judge interjected. "This might be a hostage situation."

"Or Constantine never came within a mile of here and they're just sitting in there having a couple of beers," Frank replied reasonably.

"The hour's up," Hardcastle tapped his watch, "and he's not out here."

"He loses track of time, Milt. He forgets to check in."

"No, not after this morning," the judge insisted.

"Okay," Frank turned back to Chalmers. "Three minutes, we go in. Front and back." The detective nodded, checked his watch, and trotted off.

The other two men ducked in the entryway. Hardcastle took one look at the door, then used his elbow to take out the glass and reached in to unlock it. Frank gave him a sharp look.

"No easy way, sometimes," the judge shrugged, as he headed up the stairs.

The second-floor tenant, an elderly woman, was looking out her door, preparing to scream. Frank held his hand up and said, sotto voce, "_Police_," as they ducked by. They made it to the third floor landing with twenty seconds to spare and Frank holding on to a man who looked like he was no longer following the protocol.

They heard nothing from within as the last few seconds ticked by. Finally Frank nodded. The door crashed open to two well-placed kicks, and an almost simultaneous noise from the rear of the apartment.

"Police," Frank announced officially.

Carl had swung around to face them, with a look of astonishment and a .38 in his hand.

"Uh-uh," Frank gestured with his own, "put it down now."

Carl grimaced and let it drop. McCormick was sitting lopsidedly on the sofa, blinking owlishly at the commotion. They heard a steady progression of doors being slammed open, as Chalmers went through the apartment. A moment later he arrived at the door of the front room.

"There's a body back here, in the room with the paintings—a guy in a suit. He's been stabbed."

"_He's_ under arrest." Frank pointed to Carl. "Gun's on the floor over here."

The judge was moving past him toward McCormick, whose eyes had drifted shut, now that the excitement was over. Hardcastle looked at Sigerest. One part of his mind was saying, quite reasonably, _Miranda_, but from an entirely different place came a barked-out demand, "What did you use on him?"

Carl shifted his eyes left and right, seeing the two officers looking equally intently at him.

"Beer," he muttered, "Valium. Some phenobarbital."

Hardcastle saw concern struggling with exasperation in Frank's expression. The judge shrugged unapologetically, "_I'm_ not a police officer."

Mark's chin dropped forward and Hardcastle intercepted him before the rest could follow.

"Come on, McCormick, gotta wake up and stay with us here." He shook the younger man by both shoulders.

The result was by no means electric; he shook harder. Finally McCormick's eyes blinked open again and he seemed to be trying to focus on the face in front of him. Then there was a frantic flurry of uncoordinated movement and some slurred syllables.

Frank looked over at them and then holstered his gun, leaving Carl to Chalmers. He moved next to Hardcastle and put his hand on the man's arm.

"_Milt_, lighten up; he's afraid of you."

Hardcastle glanced up at Harper. "_Me_?" then back at Mark. "What the hell? I just _rescued_ him, for Pete's sake."

"Well," Frank frowned, "that's how it looks to me. He's not thinking too clearly right now and you're scaring him."

The younger man was still trying, very ineffectively, to put some space between himself and his rescuer. The last set of mumbled words had sounded somewhat like, "I won' go."

Frank reached down and intercepted a rising fist.

"Come on, Mark, now you _know_ that's a bad idea," he said quietly. "No hitting your parole officer."

The judge loosened his grip a little, still steadying the man. McCormick had his eyes fully open now, though not very focused.

"You okay?" Frank asked. "Do you know where you are?"

Mark's eyes drifted left, taking in the officer and his prisoner. "Carl's," the younger man said, with a certain stuporous chagrin.

00000

It was daylight and he was lying down, feeling that momentary confusion that comes from waking up in a strange place. Only in this case it was more than momentary and the place was entirely strange. There was only one bit of familiarity, over by the chair on the other side of the room—

"Sarah?" he asked. "Where the he . . ._heck_ am I?"

She looked up from what she was doing, setting a neatly folded stack of clothes on the chair, and glanced over her shoulder.

"Finally awake?" she tsked. "Almost noon. You're in a guest room." She frowned a little, looking more closely at him, and added, "At Gull's Way."

"Oh," McCormick smiled bemusedly, "_that_ much I got figured. "How'd I _get_ here?"

"The judge and Lieutenant Harper brought you home. That was last night."

"Last night?" Mark frowned, feeling like he was missing something here.

"From the hospital."

"Carl," McCormick murmured. "Something in the beer."

"They pumped your stomach."

"Oh, _yeah_," McCormick made a face and sat up, feeling the room sway a little. "Don't think they got it all."

"Well, they said you'd be okay. You just needed to sleep it off, which you certainly are good at." Sarah added primly. "Fourteen hours."

Mark gave that a low whistle. "And it's . . ."

"Wednesday." Sarah said, and then she pointed to the chair, "Here are some clothes for you, and there are towels in the bathroom." She looked him over for a moment and added, "Try not to fall down."

A half-hour later he was clean and dressed, though he'd put his pants on mostly sitting down. He went the same direction down the hall that he'd seen Sarah go, and found the top of the staircase. He took the steps slowly, holding onto the banister and having a nagging thought about Wednesday.

He turned left at the bottom of the stairs and made it the last three steps across the hall without any support. Once at the doorway of the den, though, he held on for a moment until he got his balance back. Hardcastle was sitting at his desk, looking at some papers.

"You sure you should be up?" He frowned at the younger man.

"Sarah thinks so. I'm a slug." Mark smiled. "Anyway, I'm okay," he said, though he very pointedly got a grip on the handrail before tackling the last two steps down into the room. From there it was a straight shot to the chair. "See?" he said, once he was sitting.

"Oh, yeah, very impressive," the judge nodded. "Frank says we need to work on your sense of self-preservation. He says you're not supposed to accept drinks from murderers."

"Hah, _that's_ sour grapes," Mark said, holding his head a little wearily. "He had two years to work on that case. I had Carl confessing after only two days."

"He told you he killed Allison Davis?"

McCormick nodded. "Jealousy. Carl said he loved her. He says she laughed at him, only had eyes for Constantine. Then Philo walked in, right after Carl killed her and, oh, it must have been some kinda relationship because Constantine immediately turned around and blackmailed Carl." He said this all with a bitterness that surprised himself.

"Yeah," Hardcastle shook his head. "And he finally snapped yesterday and finished off Philo. A palette knife. Very ugly."

"Do you see many attractive murders?" McCormick asked dubiously.

"No," Hardcastle considered for a moment, "but this one had a lot of _energy_ to it. And once they got him down to the station . . ., and _after_ the Miranda," Hardcastle added emphatically, "Carl couldn't stop explaining what and why."

"Well, I think he really wanted to tell someone about Allison. Constantine must've worried about that a lot."

"But in the meantime," the judge said, "he had a full-time forger at his disposal. Carl says he did at least two hundred paintings for the man in the past two years. Philo paid for the apartment, and kept him in supplies."

"He said he liked his work." McCormick looked thoughtful. "I dunno, sounds like prison." A moment later he smiled and rolled his eyes, "I mean 'the slammer'."

"The pokey?"

"Yeah, the 'house of many doors'." Mark shook his head. The smile faded as quickly as it had appeared and he added, after a pause, "It sounded like _hell_."

"Maybe," the judge replied after a moment's reflection. "But he made it for himself."

McCormick nodded.

The judge pushed a little further. "People have a choice about that."

"_Some_ people do," McCormick replied bitterly.

"_You _do," Hardcastle insisted. "It won't happen on a whim."

"I dunno, Judge," the younger man shook his head again. "It seemed pretty damn whimsical the first time."

"Believe me; it wasn't."

Mark looked at him long and hard. He couldn't quite bring himself to believe, but he was beginning to see that _that _was what the judge believed.

He sat back, rubbing his forehead, and finally said, "Okay." It had been a very strange week. He paused on that thought for a moment and then looked up, panicked. "It's _Wednesday_."

"Yeah."

"I've been _evicted_," Mark stood up abruptly, and just as quickly sank down. "My _stuff_."

"One truck load," the judge said calmly. "Frank and I hauled it over yesterday evening. The truck wasn't even full. It's all in the gatehouse."

"All of it?" Mark looked at him with puzzled relief.

"Everything."

"The closet—" He bit off the rest of it, but still looked worried.

"_Everything_," Hardcastle repeated, emphatically. "You're here now. Is that okay?"

A moment passed. Mark looked out the window, then back at the judge.

"Yeah," he answered slowly, with the odd realization that he wasn't lying, "it's . . . _okay_."


End file.
